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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 




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Afoot and Awheel 
In Europe 



BY 



MRS. MARY S. LOCKWOOD 




Colored Frontispiece 

and 
Sixteen Half-tones 



GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS 

1916 



.L)6 



Copyright, 1916, by 

Mary S. Lockwood 

All rights reserved, including thai of 

translation into foreign languages, 

including the Scandinavian 



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i I 



MR 29 1916 

©CIA428301 



PREFACE 

IT was May, 1910, the year of the Passion Play 
at Oberammergau, that found a quartette of ex- 
pectant travellers, of whom the writer of this 
chronicle was one, on the deck of the steamer Celtic in 
New York Harbor, ready to sail over seas. Some 
shadows they had left behind them: some solace and 
much joy they hoped to find among the new scenes of 
the Old World — a hope, the record of whose fulfilment 
is told in the pages of this book. 

The good-byes had been said, the quartette hastened 
to their staterooms, made themselves busy arranging 
their tokens of love and friendship that loving friends had 
sent to the ship with their good-byes, so as not to see 
the fading forms of the loved ones left behind, and the 
good ship left her moorings and made her way out to sea. 

The days passed as most days do on shipboard, 
watching the changing lights and shadows that played 
over the deep blue sea, noting the peaceful rise and 
fall of the horizon, veritably being rocked in the cradle 
of the deep. 

Between the sunlight, shadows, and sea there came 
a res tf ulness of the spirit that followed us through our 
seven months' travels in Europe, and also on our home- 
ward course, until our hearts leaped for joy when our 
eyes fell upon Old Glory in New York Harbor. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface v 

Ireland 3 

Blarney Castle 5 

Glengariff 9 

Killarney 10 

The Patron or Cross-roads Dance 12 

Limerick 14 

Dublin 17 

Giant's Causeway 21 

Scotland 27 

Melrose Abbey 52 

Abbotsford 54 

Dryburgh 55 

England 61 

York 64 

London 65 

Automobiling Through England 68 

Stratford on Avon 71 

Holland 79 

Munich 85 

The Bavarian Royal Castles of Ludwig. Gberammergau 88 

The Passion Play 96 

Innsbruck and the Austrian Tyrol and Dolomites . 109 

Lake Constance and Its Environment 119 

The Lake Dwellers 121 

The Lion of Lucerne 122 

The Chateaux of the Loire 129 

Blois 131 

vii 



Vlll CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Chambord 134 

Chaumont 135 

Chenonceaux 136 

Araboise 138 

Chinon 141 

Azay-le-Rideau 142 

Langeais 144 

Luynes 146 

Usse 147 

Loches 147 

Versailles 150 

The Gardens of Versailles 151 

En Route to Spain 152 

Lourdes 156 

Spain 161 

San Sebastian 166 

Madrid 172 

TheEscorial 180 

Toledo 185 

The Cathedral 193 

TheAlhambra 206 

The Hall of the Abencerrages 211 

The Hall of the Sisters 212 

Washington Irving's Rooms 212 

The Generalife 215 

The Cathedral 216 

Algeciras and Tangier 220 

Gibraltar 229 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

The Jungfrau Frontispiece in color 



HALF-TONES 
FACING PAGE 



Mary S. Lockwood 8 ^ 

The Book of Kells 18 v 

The Honeycombs, Giant's Causeway 22 

Edinburgh Castle 46 S 

Windsor Castle 72 

The House in the Woods 80 y 

Neuschwanstein 88 : 

The Dolomites 110 ^ 

Isola Bella. Lake Maggiore 112 * 

Saussure Monument. Chamonix 114 

On Way to Bath. Aix-les-Bains 116 

Home of Albrecht Diirer 118 

The Lion of Lucerne 122 

Lafayette's Grave, Paris 132 

The Cid's Coffer 170 

Market Place— Tangier 218 



IRELAND 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

IRELAND 

IT WAS a crisp morning, May 8, 1910, that the 
Cedrics engines stopped their vibrations. We 
were in Queenstown Harbor — 2:30 a. m. The 
transfer was easily made to the lighter, and after an 
hour's ride up the harbor we were landed at Queens- 
town. It was four o'clock, but as light as day. After 
a scrutiny of all our "kits, cats, sacks, and dogs" by 
the customs master, we walked to the Queen's Hotel, a 
few rods away, for breakfast. We must needs wait 
until ten o'clock for a train for Cork. 

Queenstown was the point where Queen Victoria 
touched her foot to land in Ireland; this was on her 
visit in 1849; since that time the Cove of Cork has been 
known as Queenstown. The town has a magnificent 
situation, facing one of the most beautiful harbors in 
the world, surrounded by picturesque scenery. It is 
built on walled terraces, which look like the Palisades; 
they surely are unique, and look everlasting. 

We walked up the hill to the Cathedral of the Diocese 
of Cloyne, a very imposing structure, around which 

[3] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

the town rises, tier upon tier; these streets are lined 
with beautiful villas and old mansions, which were the 
first objects to open our eyes to the other side of old 
Ireland. 

Our train pulled out on the minute — our first experi- 
ence in the old-world compartment car. The small 
pocket engine gives one signal only, a sweetly subdued, 
lady-like little whistle, and we are moving beside lordly 
estates. The first things that strike the eye are the 
stone walls stretching out for miles, vine-covered and 
thrown into high lights by the golden gorse and wall 
flower in full blossom, taking the place of the sunlight, 
which seemed to be spasmodic in Ireland. 

Before we had reached Cork we had solved the 
mystery of the name " Green Isle." Its green fields and 
blossoming meadows were a delight to the eye. 

At eleven o'clock we were comfortably settled in our 
rooms at the Imperial Hotel; at two o'clock we had 
really entered the role of a tourist in Ireland: we were 
being tucked into a jaunting car for Blarney Castle 
by the "Head Waiter," which name was neatly em- 
broidered on the lapel of his coat. His royal highness 
while tucking the robe snugly around me remarked in 
blarney fashion: "I must tuck you in well, for good 
people are scarce." "Oh, yes," I answered, "that is 
why I came to Cork." He beamed and touched his 
foretop, and "I have only started for Blarney Castle." 
Our ride in a jaunting car in Cork was the realization 

[4] 



IRELAND 

of an anticipated pleasure, but far beyond our expecta- 
tion as to comfort and ease. 

Blarney Castle 

Our eight-mile drive was a delight as we wound our 
way over the beautiful roads along the River Lee into 
the enchanting grounds that surround Blarney Castle, 
a region of meadowland, woodland, and stream, the 
meadows bright with blossoms. We made our way 
up to the castle, every stone bearing the mark of the 
centuries; we ascended the famous donjon tower, 
climbed a hundred and twenty -eight narrow stone steps 
to the top; but we drew the line at kissing the talismanic 
Blarney Stone, for reasons best known to those who 
are on the spot. The term "Blarney" is supposed to 
have originated in the dealings of Elizabeth's govern- 
ment with the then Lord of Blarney, a figure of speech 
meaning "smooth, meaningless, flattering Irish speech," 
designed to put a person or audience in good humor. 
This stone forms the sill of one of the battlements of the 
castle and was injured during a siege in Cromwell's 
time, and was clamped with iron to secure the parapet 
above. It has been immortalized by Father Prout 
(Rev. Francis Mahony): 

" There is a stone, that whoever kisses, 
Oh, he never misses to grow eloquent. 



A clever spouter he'll turn out, or 
An out-and-outer to be let alone." 
[5] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

The view from the top of the castle is superb, and 
we looked upon the same scenes that have enchanted 
the lords of creation since the days of Dermat Mc- 
Carthy, King of South Munster. 

On our return we were taken through many of the 
principal streets and alleys, wide and narrow, in the 
city of Cork. We were greatly impressed with the 
cleanliness and the comfortable, good-looking homes. 
In every sense, Cork was a surprise. The business 
houses were solid, finely proportioned buildings on firm 
foundations; stone walls, stone underpinnings, stone 
houses everywhere; nothing looked slipshod or neg- 
lected. We surely must look further for the down- 
trodden of old Ireland. 

We alighted at St. Ann's Church, built in 1722, 
which, as is well known, is remarkable for its Campanile 
tower, containing the historic bells, and we had the 
pleasure of listening to the ringing of the "Bells of 
Shandon that sound so grand on the pleasant waters of 
the River Lee." The old sexton, who looked to be 
contemporary with the early church, was full of apolo- 
gies (this was May 9th) that "the late turn up" (mean- 
ing the death of King Edward) would prevent his play- 
ing the "Bells of Shandon." We agreed it was a sad 
"turn up," but he said he could play a hymn on all but 
the one "dead bell" — the dead bell he tolled every 
half -hour for thirty seconds from twelve to nine o'clock 
until May 20th, the days of official mourning. We 

[6] 



IRELAND 

acquiesced in the old sexton's offer, for it seemed to us a 
hymn was most appropriate to play on church chimes, 
and really supposed that that was what we were there 
for; but the old sexton's regret was that he could not 
play Father Prout's "Bells of Shandon," with which 
we had been familiar from childhood. 

In the morning G. and I wandered through the mar- 
ket; in the outer space we found women here and there 
keeping vigil, making a sale, when they could, of little 
piles of cast-off clothing, old rags, shoes, pots, and 
kettles that were in their last days; it was difficult to 
conceive who would be the purchasers and for what 
purpose. We came up to one woman, wrinkled beyond 
her years, with her little pile of nothings for sale. She 
began to tell us of her grief over the death of the King. 
"Had it not been for good King Edward — 'God bless 
his name' — we should not have had the seventy years' 
pension, for to the old in Ireland as lives in the lanes 
and alleys, he was the good man who thought of them 
with a pension of five shillings a week, which means 
comfort and plenty in their old age; now I fear all will 
be changed, and I wants a year of being seventy, more's 
the pity, for I would have had my five shillings a week 
and no worry for shelter or food. Now, I'm just sixty- 
nine and our good King is dead! He was the one who 
thought of us and methinks felt sorry for us. I know," 
she went on, "a shoemaker and his wife who now draw 
their ten shillings a week — a shilling pays for their 

[7] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

room, a sixpence for their heat, and they have the rest 
for food and clothes, and they are happy, thanks be 
to the Lord and the King." "And will be," said G., 
"if they do not spend it for drink." "Yes," said the 
market vender with a twinkle in her eye, "an' sure, 
sir, some of 'em has to be in the fashion!" G. slipped 
a piece of silver into her hand, and we told her their 
new King was a good man and the new Queen Mary was 
a good woman, and all the women had her to look to. 
"Thanks be to the Good Lord, a good woman can do 
wonders," said she, and a sweet smile came into her 
pleasant blue eyes. G. slipped a piece of money into 
a baby's hand who had not yet learned its meaning, but 
was being carried in the arms of its mother as she par- 
celled out her little nothings for sale. We bade good- 
bye to our new acquaintance in the corn market of 
Cork, hoping that when she reaches seventy she will 
be remembered by the new King, for surely her faith 
in all good legislation is in the King! 

As we walked on in a misty rain, we noticed number- 
less happy -faced children who were being watched over 
by their mothers at their daily tasks. Beside us was 
running a little five-year-old boy with cheeks so red you 
were tempted to try your handkerchief to see if it would 
not rub off; he would look into our faces and smile, 
but ask or make a sign for money — not he. G. could 
not withstand the pleasure of slipping a bit into his 
hand; the joy on his face is pleasant to remember and 

[81 




Copyright, 1915, by C. W. Van Wayuer, Washington, D. C. 

MARY S. LOCKWOOD 



IRELAND 

leaves a bright spot in our memory of the market at 
Cork. 

Glengariff 

May 11th we took the train at noon for Ban try, en 
route to Glengariff, one of the fascinating spots of 
Ireland, which will in coming time be the tourists' de- 
light. It is situated on Bantry Bay. When we ar- 
rived at Bantry the steamers had not yet begun to 
cross the lake. We took a coach and four, drove around 
the lake — a most delightful two hours' drive — every 
turn of the wheels bringing us to some new fascinating 
view. Roches' hotel was our destination: here every 
modern comfort was found. In front of us was beau- 
tiful land-locked Glengariff Bay, with woods down to 
the water's edge; across the bay rose lofty rocky moun- 
tains in broken and irregular outlines, but in interesting 
contrast to the verdant valley in front of us, and the 
wondrously beautiful glen which abounds in evergreens 
and flowering shrubs : the yew, the holly, the arbutus, the 
rhododendron, the graceful mountain ash, and the 
rushing waterfalls; the bay with its numerous and 
varied islands, some rocky, others fringed with eternal 
green, and beautiful bypaths that lead into loneliness 
and silence. The ruin of the old Cromwell bridge is in 
sight which tells its tale of woe for Ireland in the days 
grown hoary. The walk or ride to the beautiful shoot- 
ing lodge of Lord Bantry and many excursions of inter- 

[9] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

est filled the days of our stay at beautiful Glengariff 
with charm. 

KlLLARNEY 

We left Glengariff for Killarney on the first motor 
tourist car that ever ran over the Prince of Wales 
Route, the road winding through glens and lofty moun- 
tain solitudes. Our escort was one member of the 
English firm of manufacturers of the electric motors 
to be used on this route. We wound our way through 
the hills, which gradually put on the aspect of moun- 
tains; the scenery grew grander, wilder, more forbidding, 
yet entrancing. Up, up, we climbed until the little 
sprinkle that fell upon us as we entered the coach at 
Glengariff became a heavy shower; the clouds gathered 
in the mountain fastnesses, the rugged, ragged moun- 
tains were draped in mist and fog. A wild charm fell 
over the scene, then followed the sharp, jerky lightning, 
sometimes from clouds overhead and then from those 
beneath us, accompanied by roaring thunder, rever- 
berating from peak to peak, rolling down the battle- 
ments, gorge answering gorge until lost in the depths 
below. At last we came to pretty little Kenmore, 
looking so peaceful, so restful, after our wild ride, an 
experience we liked for once, but would not have it 
repeated were we consulted. 

Kenmore is one of the rest places provided by the 
Southern Railway Company; it has a lovely landscape, 

[10] 



IRELAND 

enchanting water and mountain view, but we hurried 
on to Parknasella, evidently intended as one of the 
show resorts of the railroad. A half -hour of rest and 
tea and toast in a most charming hotel came as a solace 
to travellers who had had somewhat of a strenuous ride 
over the mountains. 

From Parknasella we had one more range to cross; 
the highest mountain, Quartantala, is in this range. 
When we had reached the top our expert chauffeur 
carefully began to drop down the mountain, every five 
rods a turn, but every turn a new scene of surprise, 
until we struck the first Lake of Killarney. Down, 
down we dropped — beautiful trees, and flowers, and 
lovely mountain views — until we came to Middle Lake. 
We were leaving mountains behind us, but there were 
more in front of us, and at our side was Mancerton 
Carrantaal, one of the highest, which carries on its 
height the "Devil's Punch Bowl." They all seemed so 
near, and had almost become our friends, in this wild, 
weird, Rip Van Winkle mountain ride. At last we 
landed on the Lower Lake at beautiful, restful Lake 
House, Killarney. We had seen the Lakes of Killarney 
in all their picturesque setting! The bosom of the 
lakes is covered with islands; the mountains that sur- 
round them are covered with luxuriant verdure and 
shrubbery in variety of coloring; there is a tender grace 
of bush and tree and water set in this framework of 
hills and mountains; one moment the mist covering 

[in 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

them with a velvety sheen hiding their bold faces, and 
while you look they peep out at you again in the clear 
sunshine. The wild deer that have ventured to the mar- 
gin of the lake to drink hear your acclamations and leap 
back into the arbutus thicket — and so the days pass at 
the Lakes of Killarney. 

One of the many excursions is up the hill by the side 
of the River Loe. You come to the celebrated "Kate 
Kearney cottage." She was a famous beauty, cele- 
brated in song: 

"Oh, should you ever meet this Kate Kearney 
Who lives on the banks of Killarney, 
Beware of her smile, for many a wile 
Lies hid in the smile of Kate Kearney." 

There are some sombre-looking cabins with small 
patches of cultivated ground here and there. The 
village of Killarney is not large, but is well built; 
every street is lined with the inevitable stone walls 
covered with greenery and decorated with large shade 
trees. 

The Patron or Cross-roads Dance 

I told my companions that I had heard of the Sunday 
cross-roads dance. We inquired of our driver, and 
were told that "it had not as yet begun for the summer," 
but the next night, Saturday, word was sent to us that 

[12] 



IRELAND 

the first dance of the season would begin the next day 
at four o'clock, at the cross-roads four miles away. We 
drove up into the hills, and found the lads and lassies 
gathering; we could see them coming from all directions. 
At the cross-roads a platform fifty feet long had been 
laid at the side of the road on the hill. Sixteen couples 
took their places for the first "jig," formed like our 
quadrille. The music was an accordion, but so deftly 
played that you felt like marking time yourself. We 
soon saw by the perfect time, step, and poetry of 
motion of the dancers why their winter evenings had 
been spent in practising for the summer's recreation. 
We were told that this was all they had. We were 
forcibly impressed with the earnest, kind faces of the 
young men, and the joyous light in the faces of the 
girls. With studied precision, but with ease and grace, 
they went through the varied changes. We asked our 
driver the name of the festival, which lasts all summer, 
every Sunday from four o'clock in the evening until 
bedtime. He said it was called the "Pat Turn" dance. 
I said that it must mean the "pat" of the foot, and the 
"turn" of the heel, for I can still hear the gentle marking 
of time by the pat of the foot and see the graceful turns 
on the heel, but we learned the real name was Patron, 
meaning "cross-roads dance." 

G. bought out the orange vender for the dancers and 
tipped the musicians, and when we drove down the hill 
after a delightful hour it was amid the waving of hand- 

[13] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

kerchiefs and clapping of hands by the merry dancers 
as long as we were in sight. 

Limerick 

Our ride from Killarney to Limerick was through 
more or less fertile fields. We began to see the result 
of the new law: that a majority of tenants on a domain 
can by vote compel the lord of each domain to divide 
into severalty such portions as the tenants wish to 
purchase. In many cases the government steps in and 
at the request of the owner of such plots puts up a well- 
appointed house of concrete, sanitary and comfortable, 
at one shilling per week rent. All the way to Limerick 
we looked in vain for the pigstys and huts of the peas- 
antry; the only reminder was a postal card where Brid- 
get is carrying a squealing pig in her arms and saying 
"he gives her more trouble than all her ten children." 
Here and there are well-kept kitchen gardens, every 
row of lettuce, peas, beans, etc., drawn to a line, and 
not a weed in sight. 

,We found ourselves settled in the old capital of wes- 
tern Ireland, which is situated on the historic Shannon 
River. I will say in passing, if the traveller wants an 
American cup of coffee he will find it, with all the break- 
fast accompaniments, at the Royal Hotel. We made an 
early start the next morning for our object-lesson in the 
study of historic old Limerick. 

It will be remembered that it was first known as a 

[14] 



IRELAND 

Danish city, as it was first plundered by the Danes in 812, 
and was made one of their principal maritime stations, 
and they surrounded it with walls and towers. For 
nearly a hundred years they held sway, until Brian 
Boru assumed control over Minister and expelled the 
Danes from Scattery Island and reduced Limerick. 
Turlogh, King of Munster, received homage here and 
made Limerick the seat of royalty in 1106. From this 
time it continued to be the seat of royalty, the residence 
of kings of North Munster, until the conquest by the 
English; but the invasions, the withdrawals of native 
princes, was carried on for years — sometimes held by 
one side and then by the other. It seems to have been 
like the rest of Ireland: dissensions within and wars 
without. In 1195 the English again gained possession 
of the city. There is still standing a strong fortress 
erected by King John. Edward Bruce was joined by 
his brother King Robert Bruce in the spring of 1316, 
ravaging as they went, dragging to destruction the 
Norman power in Ireland. 

During the reign of Elizabeth, Limerick is described 
as a place substantially built with walls extending 
around a circuit of nine miles. Many of these ruins 
are still visible, even to the wall where the English 
made their entrance into the city — that part of Limerick 
known as the English City. 

The great episode in the history of Limerick took 
place during the wars of William and James, when 

[15] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

events occurred that fastened on it the name of the 
city of the "violated treaty." This treaty was ratified 
October 3, 1691, and signed on a large stone or boulder 
near Thoinond bridge, within sight of both armies. 
The ninth article of this treaty, which provided that 
the Catholics should enjoy the same privileges of their 
religion as they enjoyed in the reign of Charles II, was 
not ratified by Parliament. 

After the French invasion it was found that the entire 
city was a scene of desolation and misery. In 1760 
Limerick was declared to be no longer a fortress, and 
the dismantling of defences was begun. 

The Shannon rolls through the heart of the city, and 
is crossed by five stone bridges; the streets are broad and 
well paved. The famous "treaty stone" is at the west 
end of Thomond bridge. Opposite the cathedral is the 
monument of the Great Sarsfield, erected in 1881. 
King John's Castle is one of the finest Norman fortresses 
in the kingdom and looks as though the tooth of time 
had made no impression upon it or the towers ; but that 
cannot be said of any other structure on the English 
side. The high, massive stone walls of these immense 
old structures are being razed, and the old town seems 
to be little else than a stone quarry for the newer city 
of Limerick. 

We left Limerick with the impression that had been 
gaining on us daily by her broken battlements, ruined 
towers and castles visible everywhere, that this has 

[16] 



IRELAND 

been the stamping ground for conflict through the ages. 
And yet, who is there that does not admire the Irish 
love for freedom and of the "Green Isle?" We can 
in spirit know what Fanny Parnell carried in her heart 
when she wrote "After Death": 

"Oh, the tramp of feet victorious 

I should hear them mid the shamrocks and the mosses, 
And my heart should toss within the shroud as a captive tosses. 

Let me join with you, the jubilant procession, 

Let me chant with you her story; 
Then, contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, 

Now my eyes have seen her glory ! " 

With Boucicault we would say, "This is a chord in the 
old harp which every Irishman wears in his breast 
twanged to a minor key.'* 

We left Limerick, her contented looking people, her 
red-cheeked, happy-faced children, for Dublin, still in 
search of the downtrodden of Ireland ! 

Dublin 

A pleasant four hours' ride from Limerick brought us 
to Dublin, and to the well-appointed Shelbourne Hotel, 
facing Stephen's Green Park. Before the day was over 
we had driven around Phoenix Park, as our driver said, 
"a park with a blot on it," for here Lord Cavendish, the 
Chief Secretary, and Mr. Burke, Under Secretary, were 

[17] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUKOPE 

assassinated May 8, 1882. In the long drive we passed 
through the most attractive streets, long stretches of 
lawn, flower displays with some trees, but nothing of 
special note in scenery or surroundings; we also drove 
by the viceregal residence, the summer home of the 
Lord Lieutenant, now the home of Lady and Lord 
Aberdeen, the home and domain of the Chief Secretary, 
and we saw that Dublin had a spacious, beautiful breath- 
ing spot, where children and those of older growth 
could drink in God's sunshine. 

We spent some time at the National Museum, and 
were especially interested in the Irish antiquities, also 
in the Tara Brooch and other gold ornaments of early 
Christian times. The brooch is of exquisite workman- 
ship, and if naught else is left of Tara Hall except the hill 
on which it stood, this one relic tells the story of the past. 

The Bank of Dublin came in for its share of our time. 
Formerly it was Parliament House, the room or cham- 
ber of the House of Lords remaining just as it was when 
the Lords sat around the long table in council; not a 
picture, not a chair, has been changed. But what a 
change since the days when Ireland sat in her own 
council ! 

The charm of one day was our visit to the marvellous 
library of the University of Dublin, where the gracious 
attendant showed us the "Book of Kells," considered 
one of the most wonderful books in the world. It is 
twelve hundred years old ; the coloring of the marvellous 

[18] 



IRELAND 

illuminations and the hand printing have not faded. 
This book covers the four Gospels, Matthew, Mark, 
Luke, and John. This alone tells the story of the work 
of the monks of Tara Hill: not one stone is left upon 
another to mark the spot of the old monastery wherein 
dwelt the master illuminators. Here, too, we saw the 
"Harp that hung in Tara's Hall," but no Tara Hall 
exists to-day except in song and story, but a silver 
thread reaches back through time from this old harp 
and the "Book of Kells," and we have but to touch a 
button when the silent messages they bring up from a 
forgotten past opens the floodgates of memory, and we 
wish we might wander through the magic halls and 
silent cloisters just for a day. So much has come to us 
of old Ireland through its love songs and its romances, 
and we walk the old land overfilled with the spirit of its 
past, and we love it. 

There are two charming drives the traveller should 
not miss. One of these we took by boarding the train 
and riding to Kingstown ; from there we took a jaunting 
car to Brag. This is the most ideal drive to be found 
in Ireland. It was our first view of the Irish Sea; six 
vessels of the fleet lay at anchor — had come into port 
to be present at the funeral ceremonies of King Edward. 
How quickly my mind went back to the scattered fleet 
of the Armada as they made their escape up the coast of 
Ireland. What changes have come over the Green 
Isle! For eight miles one rides on a cliff road above 

[19] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

the sea, every turn a new vision of delight, and on into 
the fascinating scenery of Wicklow County. 

The other trip is to the Hill of Howth, due north but 
along the coast in view of the beautiful harbor. The 
fascinating violet-blue water, the little island in the 
harbor with its mountain rift, which is known as the 
"Ireland's Eye," the wonderful views to be seen in the 
walks around the point, the attractive little hotel and 
the enjoyable little lunch, have left living pictures in our 
mind of our day at the Hill of Howth. The old castle, 
the invariable accompaniment of Irish scenery, was not 
yet open to visitors. 

The public buildings of Dublin are of great archi- 
tectural beauty. Its clean streets are a delight. Its 
squares are interesting as containing the monuments 
erected commemorative of her great men. Especially 
interesting is the Nelson Pillar, and the monument to 
Father Mathew, the "Apostle of Temperance," by Miss 
Redmond. 

Many of the homes in the older parts of the city, once 
the dwelling-places of rank and fashion, are now tene- 
ment houses. Edmund Burke was born at 12 Arran 
Street, Thomas Moore at 12 Aungier Street, Mrs. Jame- 
son at 56 Golden Lane, Richard Brinsley Butler Sheri- 
dan at 12 Dorset Street, and the Duke of Wellington at 
24 Upper Mission Street; Mrs. Hemans died at 21 
Dawson Street, and so on along the line of great men 
and women the record is carefully kept. 

[20] 



IRELAND 

We reluctantly bade good-bye to beautiful Dublin, 
for the Giant's Causeway lured us on. 

Giant's Causeway 

En route from Dublin we took in Belfast, the great 
seat of industry in Ireland, by its wealth and enterprise 
one of the old country's most interesting cities. The 
drives over the city and its beautiful surroundings are 
filled with interest. The wonderful shipbuilding plants, 
where some of the largest liners in the world are built; 
its numerous linen factories, whose fabrics are known 
throughout Christendom; its public buildings, art gal- 
leries, museums of antiquities, the theological colleges, 
and many educational establishments — these could not 
hold us for long, for we were bound for the world's great 
wonder, the Giant's Causeway. 

We took the Midland Railway, through Antrim, 
Ballymena, Ballymoney, Drogheda, which brought us 
to the battlefield of the Boyne, where James and William 
contended, which ended in the "treaty of Limerick," 
of which we have written. This is in County Antrim, 
where the ancestors of President McKinley lived. 

Portrush stands on the borderland to the Causeway. 
At last we had struck a spot with no history, as we are 
told its annals neither blur nor illumine the page of the 
historian. It is glory enough for this pretty little 
seaside resort that the traveller to the Causeway must 
first find his way to Portrush; there to change from the 

[21] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

railway to a tram. But in passing we must remind 
the reader that it was the birthplace of Dr. Adam 
Clarke, the distinguished Bible commentator and ori- 
ental scholar. 

The electric tramway, opened in 1883, that runs to 
the Giant's Causeway eight miles away, was the first 
in the United Kingdom. En route we passed a lofty 
and curious formation of limestone in which the action 
of the waves had worn caves, peaks, wells, and fantastic 
shapes. Farther on we passed the gray walls of Dun- 
leith Castle. It is told us that Thackeray sixty years 
ago said it looked "as if some old, old princess of old, 
old fairy times were dragon-guarded within," and we 
know that some of the guns of one of the ships of the 
Armada that was battered to pieces on this coast did 
duty in Dunleith Castle. 

Up the little hill we climbed to Kane's Royal Hotel as 
the sun was shedding its good-night rays across the 
Atlantic. Before we retired arrangements were made 
for our guide and an early entrance to the inner circle 
of Nature's masterpiece. At eight o'clock we had 
breakfast and were on our winding way. It is a short 
walk before you enter the Causeway; seemingly you are 
walking over a regularly laid flagging of accurately cut 
stone. The beauty and order of arrangement of the 
pillars which form the pavement are the main attrac- 
tions; they number about 40,000, from fifteen to eigh- 
teen inches in diameter; the majority of these pillars 

[22] 



IRELAND 

are six-sided; there are only three with nine sides, one 
with eight sides, and one with three sides. The old 
guide kindly took me by the hand and said : 

"I will be the guide for your feet while your eyes can 
see the wonders!" 

And so, he led, first to the Giant's well of sparkling 
water, of which we drank; then we could sit in the 
wishing chair and "our wish would come true." The 
chair is composed of pillars: one forms the seat, one 
on each side the arms, and another the back. These 
columns are in sections or in drums, one above another, 
not monoliths, and where they join, one is concave, the 
other convex, and so they exactly fit into each other, 
every little indentation having its counterpart; we were 
not much surprised when the guide told us that he once 
conducted two of the greatest scientists in Europe over 
the Causeway, one declaring that it must be the handi- 
work of man, the other affirming as strongly that it was 
alone the work of Dame Nature. 

It derives its name from a popular tradition that it 
was erected by giants as a commencement of a causeway 
across the sea to Scotland. Yes, undoubtedly it was 
built by the giant forces of nature, and stands there as 
the most curious assemblage and the greatest enigma 
of basaltic columns in the world, in pleasing disorder 
like the ruins of temples or huge honeycombs. The 
causeway of basalt is said to be one of successive lava 
floors, but why here alone in all the world except for a 

[23] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

scattering show on the Scotland side it should take this 
form of crystallization, echo answereth not. 

Farther east we come to the "Giant's Organ," con- 
sisting of sixty columns, some forty feet high, yet of 
the same drum formation, and of the "Giant's Loom" 
set against the bank of rock, and the Giant's Amphi- 
theatre, considered the most beautiful in the world, 
consisting of a series of ledges backed by columns of 
basalt about three hundred and fifty feet high. And 
then there is beautiful Pleaskin Head and Bengere 
Head, many of these columns 150 feet high, five feet 
broad, but not jointed like the others. 

On our return we passed through the Giant's Gate- 
way, which gives an excellent example of the basaltic for- 
mation. The ocean was beating a tattoo against the 
old Causeway, and to its soothing accents we walked 
back to our hotel, and were told by our faithful guide 
that we had walked six miles, but we were not fatigued. 
What better proof do we want that when the heart and 
soul are filled the body knows not weariness? 

We took our train for Portrush and Lame, where we 
were to take the steamer across the Irish Sea to Ayr and 
fair Scotland. Our Irish holiday was almost over, so 
full of beautiful experiences that we would not have 
missed, and old Ireland stands out to-day in memory 
under a bright sky with the poetic charm that belongs 
to all mystery, and we shall not forget her if Scotland 
be forty times as fair. 



SCOTLAND 



SCOTLAND 

OUR trip across the Irish channel was calm and 
delightful. Landing at the little harbor, we 
took the train for Ayr, which we reached at 
11:30 p. m. The early morning found us astir in the 
"Land of Burns." Our attention was first attracted to 
a statue of Burns on the village common, unveiled in 
1891. The poet is represented as standing facing the 
place of his birth, two miles away, in an attitude of 
deep contemplation. We took a train for the "Banks 
and braes of Bonnie Doon." Not many rods south of 
the road is the "Auld Brig" crossing Doon's classic 
stream, along which Tarn o' Shanter was pursued by the 
witches, his gray mare Meg leaving her tail in her final 
clutch on the Keystone. The date of the building 
of this bridge is uncertain, but it is of great age, its 
authentic history going back 500 years. It was to 
have been taken down when the new bridge was built 
in 1816, but sufficient money to preserve it was 
subscribed in response to the "Petition of the Auld 
Brig O' Doon in arrest of judgment." Burns gave 
this marvellous prophecy of the destiny of the new 

[27] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

bridge, the poet imagining the two bridges having a 
colloquy. 

" Conceited Gouk ! puffed up with windy pride, 
This many a year I've stood the wind and tide, 
An' tho' wi crazy eild I'm sair for fain 
I'll be a brig — when ye're a shapeless Cairn." 

The prophecy did not fail, for in years the searching 
waters of the Ayr loosened the foundations of the new 
bridge and by the aid of dynamite it became a shapeless 
cairn. A new bridge has now taken its place. 

Near the Bridge o' Doon is the monument, a graceful 
cenotaph, erected in 1820; in the interior is a marble 
bust of Burns. In a small building near this monument 
are the original far-famed figures of Tarn o' Shanter 
and Souter Johnny chiselled out of solid blocks of free- 
stone. On our return we passed the "Kirk of Alio way " ; 
the inscription on the old bell is 1657; the woodwork 
long ago was removed and turned into fancy articles. 
In the churchyard near the gate is the grave of Burns' 
father. The old sexton with much pride gave a call to 
his friends the robins, and one flew down from a tree 
and lighted on his arm. Nobody else can make them 
obey the call, but the old sexton through the years has 
made them not only neighbors but friends, and they 
sit on his arm and sing to him. 

On our way we next came to the "Burns' Cottage," 
built by Williams Burns, Robert's father, 1756. The 

[28] 



SCOTLAND 

house consists of two rooms. In the kitchen is the bed 
in which Burns was born, 1759. Adjoining these rooms 
is the barn, and under the same roof. William Burns 
sold the cottage in 1766 when Robert was seven years 
old. The cottage was afterward occupied as a public 
house and came to be known as Burns' Cottage. It 
has now become the mecca for tourists, 56,%56 visiting 
it in 1906. Many relics of Burns' Dumfries home are 
now installed in the cottage and add greatly to the inter- 
est. But to understand the compelling charm of this 
place one must go back and be wafted away to the moor- 
lands of mist, to the ballads and wailes that have made 
of its woodlands and dales a picture of rest. 

The new line of railroad that opens up to the traveller 
the beauties of the Garrick Coast brings them into close 
touch with all historical and romantic associations. 
It is many centuries since the Celtic settlers, who had a 
large share in opening up the dark places of the earth, 
found their way to this region on the Ayr, and there are 
proofs that the wandering heralds of the Cross from 
Iona at a very early period brought their Christian 
faith into these parts; but one fact is authentic: that 
William the Lion, who then lived in his castle in Ayr, 
granted the town a royal charter, which is the oldest 
charter of its class in Scotland. This was between 
1202 and 1207. After that history "thickens and 
bristles" with interest; from the days of Wallace and 
Bruce down to the revolution of 1688, Ayr was promi- 

[29] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

nent in Scottish history, and with the days of Robert 
Burns Ayr became a mecca for lovers of Scottish ro- 
mance and history. 

The days that followed our sojourn in the Land of 
Burns and his "Highland Mary" found us in Glasgow. 
This city has long been known as the centre of industry 
and commercialism, but later it is becoming known 
that the west coast of Scotland, the most interesting 
part of the country, is best reached from this point: 
as we found when we had to come back to go to the 
Trossachs, and Loch Lomond, the Stirling region, the 
haunts of Rob Roy, the Falls of Clyde, the Firth of 
Clyde, the Kyles of Bute, Crinans Canal to Oban. 

We began in the interesting city of Glasgow, with her 
ancient history and monuments, then her cathedral — 
and behind the cathedral lies the city's great Necrop- 
olis, the city of the dead; then down High Street to 
the scenes of Wallace's famous fight; past the Tolbooth, 
where Rob Boy met Bailie Nichol Jarvie; and on 
through Salt Market, where Cromwell and the Duke of 
York and the Bailie mentioned stopped, where Prince 
Charles Edward held his last review, to Cathcart, 
where a stone marks the knoll from which, on a day in 
May, 1568, Queen Mary witnessed the overthrow of 
her last army at Langside — on the battlefield itself a 
monument marks the scene — and then on to the art 
galleries, the university, and, above all, the docks. 
Some nine millions have been spent on these docks. 

[30] 



SCOTLAND 

We listen and hear the clang of hammer and steel and 
see an array of skeleton ships; both banks of the Clyde 
are covered with famous shipbuilding yards. 

May 25th, at nine o'clock in the morning, we took 
the train at Queen Station for Loch Lomond and the 
Trossachs. Soon we were passing the Clyde, passing 
Dumbarton Castle, on to Ballach, where we took the 
steamer which carries the tourist down to Inversnaid. 
Here is where Wordsworth saw the Highland lass that 
he has immortalized : 

"What joy to hear thee, and to see; 
Thy elder brother I would be, 
Thy father, anything, to thee." 

We were sailing along the bonny, bonny banks of Lake 
Lomond. When we reached the wharf at the end of the 
lake the stage was waiting to carry the passengers over 
the pass five miles away. Up, up, the coach goes, the 
waters rushing by making beautiful cascades, the pine- 
covered hills, the mountains beyond, and Ben Lomond 
in the background making new pictures; Rob Roy's 
cave, just at our side, the hiding-place of Robert Bruce. 
After an exhilarating ride of two hours we reached 
Stronachlachar, where we lunched and boarded the 
steamer Sir Walter Scott. This beautiful Lake Katrine, 
the gem of Scottish lakes, is only eight miles long and 
one mile broad, but it is the lake of romance, song, and 
story, and we were soon under the magic spell of Scott's 

[31] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

pen and "The Lady of the Lake." Steep cliffs and 
beautiful woods entrance you until you come to Ellen's 
Island, where lived the Lady of the Lake. The steamer 
stopped and we could almost hear King James' horn 
and see Ellen Douglas in her skiff answering to the sup- 
posed call of her father, and we felt quite sure this 
masterpiece in literature was what opened the eyes of the 
world to the beauty of the Trossachs and Loch Katrine, 
and that it is the romance of these regions that draws 
thousands into this beautiful district to see the lakes, 
the island, the mountains where these deeds of chivalry 
and of love have been supposed to exist. 

At the end of the lake we entered the Trossachs ! We 
were in the land of the Clan Macgregor, a district over- 
hung by high mountains, where they had their strong- 
hold; their hills were in sight of Stirling Castle and the 
City of Glasgow. The famous Rob Roy Macgregor 
was a chieftain of this clan. The stage again carried 
us over mountain and glade — you are immediately 
surrounded by an ingathering of wildness and grandeur 
and solitude — white birch trees grace the roadway, the 
hills are clad in heather, bold cliffs stand out on all sides. 

"And mountains, that like giants stand, 
To sentinel enchanted land, 
High on the south, huge Ben Venue 

Down on the lake in masses threw 
Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurl'd, 
The fragments of an earlier world." 
[32] 



SCOTLAND 

We were in the Trossachs. A two hours' ride brought 
us to the last hill, when the road led down the steep 
ascent into the valley, and Aberfoyle lay at our feet. 
"What a bonny setting," said a Scotchman at our side. 
We were now amid the scenes where Sir Walter Scott 
got his color for his novel "Rob Roy." In due time our 
holiday in the Trossachs was over and we were bent for 
Glasgow. 

We took the train in the early morning of May 28th 
for the Scottish Highlands and Islands, quietly running 
along the Clyde until we reached the Firth, where we 
boarded the steamer Columba. Farther on down the 
Firth the beautiful sea panorama includes many places 
familiar in history. The town of Largo is where the 
Norse Hakon was overthrown in 1263. We passed 
the wooded shores of Bute, and at Mount Stuart can 
be seen the splendid seat of the Marquis of Bute, 
descendant of King Robert II. Here we discovered 
that instead of going steadily on to Oban, our objective 
point for that day, the Columba would stop at Rothe- 
say, much to our delight, as it was one point we were 
glad to make. The season for through boats did not 
begin until June 1st. As our steamer entered Rothesay 
Bay it was beautiful to behold, with its terraced green 
slopes and crescent shore. We chose for our home, over 
Sunday, Glenburn Hydropathic Hotel, which is situated 
on the slope of the wooded ridge ; it commands a magnifi- 
cent view of the bay, the full length of Loch Striven, 

[33] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

the entrance to the Kyles of Bute, and the stately moun- 
tains of Argyle, and is not an hour's walk from Mount 
Stuart, the residence of the Marquis of Bute. 

The great actor Kean, when on a visit there, inscribed 
on the summer house, 

"How glorious from the loopholes of retreat 
To look on such a world." 

Our days at Glenburn were restful and inspiring, and 
notwithstanding the torrents of rain that accompanied 
us to the wharf, as it had been our companion much of 
the time in Scotland, until we began to look upon it as 
a friend that sticketh closer than a brother, Rothesay 
was still beautiful. 

An Englishman rode to the wharf with us. Of course, 
the never-failing topic, "the weather," broke the ice 
for conversation. He said when in Scotland once he 
asked a Scotchman if it always rained in Scotland. 
"Nae," he answered, "sometimes it snaes." 
When we sailed away Mrs. Craik's song came to 
mind: 

" It's a bonny bay at morning, 
And bonnier at the noon; 
But bonniest when the sun drops, 
And red comes up the moon; 
When the mist creep ov'r the Cumbraes, 
And Arran's peaks are grey, 
And the great black hills like sleeping kings 
Sit grand round Rothesay Bay." 
[34] 



SCOTLAND 

Soon our steamer entered the winding narrows of the 
Kyles of Bute. In some places we were so near shore on 
either side that we could almost pick flowers off the 
banks, and our way seemed filled with the mountains 
ahead. Gently we turned, the steamer bore away, and 
we left the Maids of Bute in their homes on the moun- 
tainside, and made for Tarbet, the headquarters of Lake 
Fyne fisheries. 

Here our English friend left us to go to Islay. The 
Columba ended her voyage at Ardraishag pier. Here 
we drove through the village and changed for the little 
steamer Linnet, to enter the Crinan Canal; this con- 
nects Lake Fyne with Lock Crinan, to avoid the cir- 
cuitous passage round the Mull of Kintyre. This 
canal, nine miles long, has fifteen locks; the first series 
of nine locks within one mile gives the passengers a 
chance to walk through this most entrancing scenery. 
In descending to the lower level, which begins with the 
eighth lock, we were nearing Bellanock Bay, and shortly 
we arrived at Crinan, the western terminus of the canal. 
A short walk brought us to the pier, where another 
steamer was waiting, with steam up. The fascination 
in this changing panorama can hardly be expressed. 
Fifteen minutes after leaving Crinan the steamer 
passed between the points of Craignish and the Island 
Garbreisha, or Great Door, where the tides rush through 
with great force. Beyond Craignish point we got a 
good view of the straits between Jura and Scarba; on 

[35] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

for a few miles lie the Isles of the Sea, and the steamer 
beat against the broad Atlantic. To the left lies Mull, 
with its bold cliffs and lofty mountains; a few miles 
beyond lies Iona. 

In sailing through these land-locked islands we found 
everything land-locked but old ocean, and we realized 
more what she could do than in crossing from New 
York to Queenstown. It brought to our party no 
discomfort, and the delight of the trip was beyond com- 
pare. 

As the sun was leaving we entered the beautiful 
harbor of Oban, where it has often been asserted her 
sunsets are the finest that can be seen, and it was our 
good fortune that it was a propitious time for us. No 
pen can adequately describe the glorious prospect, the 
fairy -like scene that glows in radiant hues over the blue 
and purple peaks of Mull beyond the golden waters. 
Nowhere do sunset and evening star paint sea and shore 
and sky above in such glowing pageantry. 

For the last three days we had been coming over this 
royal route that has been known through time. Over 
this route came Alexander II, and the Norse Hakon; 
James IV, James V, and Robert Bruce and Bonnie 
Prince Charlie sailed these waters long in advance 
of their descendants; and Queen Victoria and His 
Majesty King Edward, in other days when the passions 
of men had found an estop and peace was on the face 
of the waters. 

[36] 



SCOTLAND 

The Station Hotel, complete in all its appointments, 
was our home while we made acquaintance with this 
attractive place and its environments. Its old castles, 
beautiful walks and drives into the Highlands of Scot- 
land filled our days with satisfaction. 

Dunollic Castle was in our way when we walked the 
beautiful esplanade to the sandy beach bay. This 
castle was the ancient stronghold of the Lords of 
Lome. 

Again in our trip out into the Highlands we came upon 
Dunstaffnage Castle. It is supposed to have been of 
Pictish origin, the first people that history gives any 
account of, but supposed to be identical with the an- 
cient Caledonians. Their name signifies "painted." 
In the early days of history they wore no clothes and 
their bodies were painted. It is not known whether 
they were of Celtic or Teutonic descent. No country 
that we remember has ever been discovered, for invari- 
ably some one was there to welcome the discoverer. 
In this half -fabulous period of Scottish history thirty- 
eight Pictish kings are enumerated from 451 to 853. 
A part of these had become partially civilized under 
the Romans, and after their withdrawal formed a union 
and a kingdom familiarly known as Strath-Clyde. 
During this period the Saxons arrived in Scotland, in 
449. They eventually conquered and settled the low- 
lands. One of their leaders, Edward, founded Edin- 
burgh (Edwinburg). About fifty years after this the 

[37] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

Scots from Ireland, a Celtic tribe, settled on the west 
coast and established a kingdom, beginning with the 
reign of Fergus, one of their chiefs, and continuing 
under a series of kings until the reign of Kenneth Mc- 
Alpin in 836, when the Scotch Irish became the domi- 
nant race in the land, which now began to be called 
Scotland. During this reign the Picts disappeared as a 
people, it being usually believed they were amalgamated 
and absorbed by the Scots. It was during the Pictish 
period that the natives in the sixth century were con- 
verted to Christianity by St. Columba and other mis- 
sionaries from Ireland. 

Dunstaffnage Castle, on the wooded peninsula of 
Loch Etive, carries one back to the days when it was 
the Scottish capitol and held the "stone of destiny," 
which now has its place under the coronation chair at 
Westminster. It was brought from Ireland by Fergus, 
who deposited it first at Iona and then at Dunstaffnage. 
Its resting-place there being no longer safe on account 
of the Norwegians, it was brought by Kenneth II to 
Scone, and Edward I carried it to Westminster Abbey, 
where it rests under the chair in which the Kings of 
the British Empire have been crowned. 

There is an old rhymish proverb which runs like this : 

"Unless the fates are faithless grown 
And prophet's voice be vain, 
Where'er is found this sacred stone, 
The Scottish race shall reign." 
[38] 



SCOTLAND 

Sir Walter Scott asserts that there were Scots who 
hailed the accomplishment of this prophecy at the ac- 
cession of James VI to the crown of England. 

Dunstaffnage lost its national import when Kenneth 
MacAlpine removed to Forteviot, but Robert the Bruce 
took possession of it after his victory over Macdougall 
of Lome. The castle and its domains were granted in 
1436 to Campbell of Loch Awe, and it is said to be the 
Ardenvohr of Scott's "Legend of Montrose." When 
we recall that Flora Macdonald was imprisoned here 
for her part in helping the escape of Prince Charles 
Edward a few centuries later, and that Colkilto Mac- 
donald was hanged here, and a few more glimpses of 
history from legend and story, we wonder how it would 
have been if this "Stone of Destiny," said to have been 
Jacob's pillow, had never been removed to the Corona- 
tion Chair at Westminster Abbey. 

Our days were filled with the dreams and legends of 
other days, brought in with every breeze of the " High- 
lands," and when we boarded the steamer that was to 
carry us out of beautiful Oban Bay it was with this 
refrain in our hearts : 

" Fair Oban is a dainty place 
In distant or in nigh lands, 
No town delights the tourist race 
Like Oban in the Highlands." 

It was in the early morning that we boarded the 
steamer that was to take us out of the bay at Oban 

[39] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

farther on into the western Highlands of Scotland. 
Again we found ourselves carried along through a region 
filled with the beautiful legends of bygone centuries. 
Every stretch of water or mountainside brought back 
the memory of some love tale, some clan feud between 
Macgregors, Macdonalds, or Campbells; every view had 
its traditions of song and story; every turn of the wheel 
opened the landscape of history full, rich, reminiscent; 
but in every little hamlet where the steamer stopped we 
found the life of to-day; and that means the days of 
strife, feuds, and wars have given way to the march of 
civilization, and with it has come industry, peace, hap- 
piness. 

On the way to Loch Leven we passed old ruins; some 
of them, it is said, have historic backing in Ossian's 
poems; for the time has long since passed when it is 
questioned whether there was a Celtic bard since 
Macpherson journeyed through the Highlands and 
gathered several volumes of Gaelic manuscripts by 
Ossian, the son of Fingal, who was one of the most 
famous of the Celtic legendary heroes. At this time, 
the second and third centuries, the highlanders were 
in bad repute with the rest of Great Britain on account 
of their rebellion, and it was some time before these 
poems met with any reception. In 1762 "Fingal," 
in 1763 "Temora," with five minor poems, were trans- 
lated into English prose. These produced a profound 
sensation. The poems were translated into most of the 

[40] 



SCOTLAND 

languages of Europe. Among their admirers the names 
of Goethe, Schiller, and Napoleon are mentioned. In 
England Doctor Johnson questioned their authenticity, 
as Gaelic was a barbarous language, but proof was too 
positive for even Doctor Johnson to combat, and the 
poems of Ossian came into the world to live and to 
almost make sacred this part of the Highlands where 
he was born and lived and wove histories into poetry. 
While we were living over the days of Ossian our little 
steamer had glided into the bay and up to the pier at 
Ballachulish, where we landed to take the drive which 
is considered one of the most famous in Scotland, 
through the historic Pass of Glencoe. 

A comfortable coach awaited the arrival of the 
steamer. The drive took us through Ballachulish 
village and the world-renowned slate works and quar- 
ries. As the road approached Glencoe we got a glimpse 
of the ruins of old Inverness, the seat of the Macdonald 
chief. The terrible night of the massacre of the clans- 
men, 1692, by the ruthless soldiers of William III, in- 
stigated by Breadalbane — a dark stain on William III 
— was brought to mind as we passed the ruins of these 
homes. After having been received with warm welcome 
by this Highland chief and royally entertained, they 
repaid all civilities by rising up in the night and slaying 
every man, woman, and child. A tall cross marks the 
memory of those who fell. 

But the scenery of the glen is most beautiful. On 

[41] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

one side of the glen a long black indentation many feet 
above the road is the mouth of "Ossian's Cave." It is 
said to have been Ossian's refuge when composing his 
"songs of the times of old." We were about three hours 
in making the trip, and returned to the steamer, glad we 
had taken the drive so full of history and marvellous 
scenery, but more glad to close our eyes for a time and 
try to forget the wickedness that has been in the calm 
and sweetness of the present, while the staunch little 
steamer carries us by historic spots, landed estates, 
and Highland towns, until we glide into the quiet 
port of Fort William at the foot of the Caledonian 
Canal. 

The following day we began our trip through the 
canal. This canal was surveyed by James Watt in 
1773 as a means of opening up the Highlands in 1803. 
The famous engineer Telford finally surveyed it again. 
It was opened from sea to sea in 1822 at a total cost of 
a million sterling. Through difficulties for a time it was 
abandoned, but the construction was improved and 
the canal was reopened in 1847. They found great 
difficulty in completing the canal in some sections ow- 
ing to rapid streams that would flow into the locks, but 
some Goethals came along who did not know the word 
fail, who constructed culverts to convey these waters 
under the canal to the river. The level of the loch was 
raised twelve feet. The distance from the east coast 
to the west coast is sixty-two miles; twenty-four miles 

[42] 



SCOTLAND 

of this is canal, and thirty-eight miles natural waters, 
Loch Lochy, Loch Oich, and Loch Ness. The locks are 
each 160 feet long, 38 feet wide; the depth of water is 
from 17 to 18 feet, and vessels of a thousand tons burden 
can pass through. The master minds of those days 
saw the great advantage of uniting the east and west 
shores of a continent by building a waterway over the 
great highway, binding one shore to the other. Did 
Scotland build this for the benefit of Scotland and the 
Scots, or was she so magnanimous that it was the world 
at large she had in mind? Tradition says it was to 
stop emigration. 

In making this trip which landed us at Muirtown, the 
landing place for Inverness, we had spent a day which 
we shall never forget — the sylvan beauty of these shores, 
the picturesque ruins, the memories of legend and his- 
tory made tangible by looking upon the waste places 
where the old feuds brought the clans of the Macdon- 
alds of Glengary and the Mackenzies of Ross-shire into 
combat; where Prince Charles Edward was belted and 
plaided in full pursuit of Sir John Cope, and all the 
rest of it, until we fall to wondering if they ever knew 
days of rest and peacefulness. And then we remem- 
bered that there came the years of peace. Queen Vic- 
toria resided at Inverlochy Castle in the fall of 1873 
for some time; King Edward sometimes went on 
hunting expeditions in these glens in the Highlands, 
and then we know that old Ben Nevis, the king among 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

mountains in this region, has been a silent witness to 
the days of peace as well as conflict. 

Our carriage soon took us to our stopping-place, the 
Station Hotel. We were in the old capital of the High- 
lands; we found that we were two degrees and a half 
higher in latitude than at the Causeway. The evening, 
with the sun going down, brought a charm over the 
scene that at once dispelled all weariness or fatigue. 
We were in old Inverness with her mantle of history 
surrounding her, and the battlefield of Culloden only 
four miles away, with all the pathetic memories of the 
last days of the Stuarts. There we saw the great 
Cumberland stone from which the Duke of Cumberland 
directed the battle. The old "well of the dead" is 
still there, into which, it is told, many dying men crept 
to quench their thirst during the night that followed 
the battle. The green trenches among the heather are 
still visible in which the Highland dead were buried, 
according to their tartans, it is said. 

The capital of the Highlands is marvellously beautiful 
for situation; in fact, so many places on this trip are 
pictured with river, firth, woodland, and valley, each 
carrying its page of history, that we might feel with 
Shirley Brooks that, if there were many places like 
them, people would be in fearful danger of forgetting 
that they ought to be miserable. The swift-running 
River Ness divides the town: the waters sweep along 
with such a swift current that no craft is seen on its 

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SCOTLAND 

clear waters. The town is old enough to be highly 
respectable; according to records, it was built in the 
first century b. c. On the elevated plateau to the 
east of the town, known as "The Crown," there was 
once a fortified castle, said to have been razed to the 
ground by Malcolm Canmore in 1075. This was the 
traditionary castle of Macbeth, where some think the 
great traveller, Lord Bacon, got hold of his hand-downs 
for Shakespeare. 

The old town was erected into a royal burgh by David 
I. Its charter dates back to William the Lion. Robert 
Bruce, James I, James IV, Mary Queen of Scots, and 
the late Queen Victoria have been visitors to this High- 
land capital. Oliver Cromwell left his mark on Inver- 
ness in a citadel. There is a striking monument well 
worth studying of Flora Macdonald in one of the squares. 
It will be remembered that while she was on a visit to 
Uist she helped Charles Edward Stuart, who was a 
wanderer after the defeat at Culloden, to don woman's 
attire and escape with her to Skye. Her stepfather 
commanded one of the militia parties in the service of 
the government, and gave her a passport for herself 
and for "Betty Bourke, a stout Irish woman," and 
they reached Skye in safety. In time it was found out; 
she was arrested, put in prison, but the authorities 
were glad to soon release her, and now her memory is 
honored in the fair city of the Highlands. 

In Inverness we have looked upon her public build- 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

ings, her castles, her river islands, her homes, and now 
we must turn our feet toward Edinburgh. 

Our holiday in the Highlands, so full of fruitful ex- 
periences we would not have missed, is at an end, but 
all that is so beautiful that we leave behind is photo- 
graphed on the brain, and will in coming days pass 
before us in moving pictures. We leave the fascinating 
waters of Clyde, Kyles of Butte, Oban Bay, charming 
Crinnan Canal, Loch Lime, Loch Levin, and historic 
Caledonian Canal, which has brought rest and a charm 
into busy lives, and take the more prosaic steam cars 
through interesting country to Edinburgh. Our first 
duty we felt, the next morning after our arrival, 
was to drive to the old castle, by far the most remark- 
able building in the city. It began with the early 
history of Scotland. It is said that the daughters 
of the Pictish kings resided there before their marriage. 
The small room is shown where Mary Queen of Scots 
gave birth to James VI, and the window from which 
they were let down the dizzy height by ropes. We 
could but contrast this room with the luxuries of late 
years, which have become, not luxuries, but necessities, 
and we — well, just wonder. Much of the history 
made between these gray walls was recalled by the 
guide who conducted us through. His twinkling eye 
when he was getting ready to fire off some of his dry 
wit gave such a charm to his story that we shall 
not soon forget the old storied castle and its genial 

[46] 



SCOTLAND 

attendant. The palace of Holy rood is at the east 
end of the city and was the ancient residence of the 
Scottish kings. A part of this home was built by 
James V, and here lived Queen Mary, and here was 
the scene of Rizzio's murder. Adjoining are the ruins 
of Holyrood, founded by David I in 1128. A reality 
of those days comes over you while you are looking upon 
the very spot where these tragedies were enacted that 
reading history cannot give; but the homes, the sur- 
roundings of those whose names are a household word, 
brought an intense interest — the names of those who 
filled their mission in life in far different walks from 
those which royalty has trod. 

The changes time has wrought are so marked that 
we have only to take the two cities, Glasgow and 
Edinburgh, to read the story. Long before Edinburgh 
was founded, Glasgow was a thriving town; it was a 
bishop's seat and place of consequence. To-day the 
world flocks to Edinburgh for the antique history of a 
romantic past, and Glasgow hums and swirls and is 
known over the world by her energetic life. 

We landed at the Prince Station of the Caledonian 
Railway. Our hotel was commodious and in every 
respect comfortable, and we felt that we should be 
quite averse to exchanging our apartments for those 
Queen Mary lived in at Holyrood or those in which 
the Stuart kings spent their uneasy lives in Edinburgh 
Castle. Our days were spent in placing the public 

[47] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

institutions and local habitations of great men of their 
day. In George Street we found the Assembly Rooms 
where, at an historical banquet in 1827, Sir Walter Scott 
confessed himself to be the author of Waverley Novels. 
The upper window of a tenement house looking down 
from the corner of St. James Square marks the room 
occupied by Robert Burns while he wrote his famous 
letter, "Clarinda," and also by Henry Irving when he 
first trod the stage for the Scottish people. 

On to the east rises Calton Hill and the attempt to 
honor the battle of Waterloo by a national monument 
in Athenic style. Nelson, Dugald Stuart, and other 
notables also have their attempts, more or less mon- 
strous, which ought to put other countries we know 
in the position of not being lonesome. Down the 
steep north side of the hill is the place where Bothwell 
wove the spell over Queen Mary by the dexterity 
with which he handled his mettled steed. Calton 
Cemetery holds the dust of Constable, Scott's publisher, 
and of Hume the historian, and this is but a step from 
Holy rood. The house opposite is pom ted out where 
Mary bathed in white wine before going to meet her 
lover, and over whose roof the assassin of Rizzio escaped. 

Here in Edinburgh we see the Holyrood Chapel, 
which has been richly endowed: here was the wedding 
of Mary and Darnley, the coronation of Charles I. In 
the vaults lie the remains of James II, James V, and 
other personages of royalty; and Holyrood has been 

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bCOTLAND 

the asylum for centuries of such personages as the Duke 
of Lancaster, father of Henry IV, the Duke of York, 
afterward James II, Charles X, and many other un- 
fortunates. 

The one work of art that stands over and above all 
others is the Gothic monument to Sir Walter Scott, 
located in beautiful Prince Street; a marble statue of 
Sir Walter is in the centre. It has niches for the rep- 
resentations of the principal characters in his books. 
When we go to the site where he was born, and at 25 
George Square, where his father lived in his boyhood, 
when we recall his weak physique through his younger 
years, his lameness through life, and remember what 
he overcame, that he made for himself a name above 
reproach and one endowed by his nation — a household 
word for all nations — we feel the great incentive it 
might be to the disheartened to press forward, putting 
obstacles under their feet and thereby reach the goal. 

Here is the Cathedral of St. Giles. The poet bishop 
Gavin Douglas preached here, when Jenny Geddes flung 
her stool at the Dean of Edinburgh's head, and thus 
began the movement which cost the head of Charles I. 
There is the long ascent of the Canon gate crowded 
with memories. At the foot of High Street lived John 
Knox. Edinburgh for a time had but one parish; John 
Knox was the minister, and the parish church was the 
St. Giles. The world knows the ups and downs of this 
great preacher. In front of Parliament House, now 

[49] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL EN EUROPE 

the Supreme Court, under the causeway, lie the remains 
of the great reformer, and the chapter is not half told. 

One of the many excursions out of Edinburgh is to 
Cramend Brig. En route, every mile is crowded with 
incident and story, which usually your driver is ready to 
recount, but the best is of Cramend Brig itself. It is an 
old, old story, but when you hear it on the spot it 
comes back with renewed and vital interest. The 
story goes: As James V was returning incognito and 
alone from one of his sundry outings for romance or 
pleasure, for which, we are told, he was famous, he was 
murderously set upon by a troup of gypsy vagabonds. 
Notwithstanding his noted dexterity in self-defence, 
he was on the point of being overcome when a laborer 
who had been threshing corn in a barn near by sallied 
out with his flail and used it with such skill that the 
gypsies fled. He then invited James to his cottage, 
brought a basin of water and a towel that he might 
wash his face and hands clear of the blood and dust, 
and set before him a portion of the supper of sheepshead 
of which the family were about to partake. Further, 
for fear the company should renew the attack, he accom- 
panied the traveller a part of the way to Edinburgh. 
On the road James took occasion to ask the name and 
business of his deliverer, and discovered him to be one 
Jock Howieson, a bondsman on the King's farm near by, 
"And have you no wish to do better for yourself? " 
To which Howieson replied that, at the greatest 

[50] 



SCOTLAND 

stretch of his desires, he had sometimes wished he 
might have been the possessor of the farm on which he 
worked. But here he turned the talk by asking his 
companion who he himself might be. James replied 
that he was a poor man, the Guidman of Ballangeich, 
holding a small post at court. As Howieson seemed 
interested, James said if he would come to a certain 
postern on the following Sunday and inquire for Bal- 
langeich he would be happy to show him something of 
the place. Of course, such an opportunity could not 
be lost, so on Sunday Jock, in his best attire, knocked 
at the appointed door. He inquired for Ballangeich, 
and his new-made friend presently appeared, and, keep- 
ing his promise, showed Jock through all the splendors 
of the place. Presently he asked him if he would not 
like to see the King. Howieson said he would be glad 
to if it would bring no trouble on Ballangeich himself. 
Jock inquired cautiously how he should know King 
James. James replied: 

"The King alone will wear his bonnet, all the others 
will be uncovered." 

He then opened a door and led the way into the 
crowded hall, Jock keeping close behind. Howieson 
stared with both eyes, but presently pulled the sleeve 
of his guide. 

"I — I dinna see the King," he said. 

"I told you," answered James, "he would be the 
only man wearing a bonnet." 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

"Weel," said Howieson, "that maun be either you or 
me, fer nobody but us has a bonnet on." 

Thereat, it is said, James and the court had a laugh; 
but to make Jock happy and merry, too, the King then 
presented him on the spot with the farm of Braehead, 
which belongs to the Howieson descendants to-day. 

Melrose Abbey, Abbotsford, and Dryburgh 

We left Edinburgh in the morning, the railway train 
bearing us into the open country along the Firth of 
Forth and southward over the fair Moorfoot Hills. 
We passed many extensive demesnes, but it was the 
ruins of Borthwick Castle that impressed us most. It 
was while Mary Stuart and Both well were residing here, 
in June, 1567, that the castle was attacked by Scottish 
barons and their retainers. Bothwell escaped and the 
Queen followed in men's clothes, booted and spurred; 
she joined Bothwell and they rode to his castle at Dun- 
bar. In November Cromwell forced the surrender of 
the castle. A little farther on are the ruins of Creighton 
Castle, in which Queen Mary was once a guest at a 
wedding feast. It was a favorite resort of Sir Walter 
Scott, which he mentioned in "Marmion"; but to us 
the interest in the place was because it was the first 
place in all our travels through Scotland that we had 
come across where poor Queen Mary seemed to be any- 
thing but the hunted deer, and we were almost afraid to 
look with steady eye upon these ruins for fear we might 

[52] 



SCOTLAND 

see the spirit of some Scottish chieftain in pursuit of the 
haunted soul! 

We crossed the historic Tweed, not immortalized by 
murdered kings and queens, but known even over the 
seas by its "Tweed cloth." 

A little farther on and we were at Melrose, with all 
the memories stored up from childhood. We lunched 
at comfortable Abbey Hotel before we entered the 
wonderful ruins of the Abbey of St. Mary of Melrose, 
built by David I, King of Scotland. It is said the 
mission of the monks residing there was not to care for 
souls, but to live in seclusion and cultivate the ground. 

Amid these silent majestic ruins we found the bury- 
ing place of Alexander II, King of Scotland; near the 
high altar of the abbey he was buried in 1249. In 1322 
Edward II, King of England, on his return from Scot- 
land came to Melrose, intending to reside there. He 
sent on an advance guard to prepare for his reception, 
but Lord Douglas surprised them, slew a good many, 
which so enraged Edward that he proceeded with his 
force and did what many another leader has done — 
took vengeance on inanimate things, and utterly de- 
stroyed the abbey, and the world is the loser of one 
of its most beautiful works of art and architecture, 
a loss that forty generations of King Edwards could 
not possibly replace. Is this the march of civiliza- 
tion? When the English were expelled from Scotland 
Robert the Bruce began to rebuild the abbey in 1326, 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

and it was completed within the fourteenth century. 
The Bruce's heart was buried here after being brought 
back from Spain. At last Henry VIII became so in- 
censed at the failure of his endeavors to woo the youth- 
ful Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, for his son (afterward 
Edward VI) that he sent Lord Hertford with an army, 
which not only laid waste this whole section, but again 
totally wrecked Melrose Abbey. Some of the most 
beautiful architectural portions in detail remain to tell 
the story of its past grandeur. The modernized build- 
ings in the little village certainly do detract from the 
dignity of these classic ruins; they are built so close to 
the abbey it leaves no space for perspective epitaphs, 
but from the adjoining churchyard a better view is 
gotten. 

Abbotsford 

Three miles away stands the baronial pile of Abbots- 
ford. Probably this is the most magnificent house built 
from the earnings of a literary man and still in posses- 
sion of members of his family. It is now occupied by 
his great-granddaughter, Mrs. Maxwell Scott, a de- 
scendant of Lockhart and Sophia Scott, daughter of Sir 
Walter. The place is open every day to the public 
from 10 a. m. to 5 :00 p. m. for a small admittance fee. If 
attention is given to every niche and corner of this 
fascinating somewhat rambling place, you leave with 
the feeling that not only was Sir Walter Scott one of 

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SCOTLAND 

the world's great literary men, but he had an insight 
into the artistic domain that few men possess. He was 
one, not endowed with the one talent to make himself 
heard over the world, but seemingly with the ten, that 
he should know not only the beauty but the aesthetic 
value of bits of antiquarian interest, not so much ap- 
preciated in those days, but a glory to-day to all lovers 
of the beautiful and the unique. His study, the library, 
the armory — one of the finest to be seen anywhere — the 
salon with walls adorned with priceless paintings, and you 
wonder, with the printed folios he has given to the world, 
when he ever found the time to give to such varied study. 

One pleasant incident comes to mind: I was wearing 
a brooch given me by a friend; it was said to be the 
portrait of Nell Gwyn copied from the painting by Sir 
Peter Lely, but we had not proved it. To my delight, 
on the walls of Abbotsford hung the painting of Nell 
Gwyn by Sir Peter from which the painting on my 
brooch was copied. 

It is not hours but days one could spend among these 
interesting artistic objects collected by Sir Walter 
which are now left for the delight and education of 
future generations who visit this shrine of beautiful 
Abbotsford at Melrose on the banks of the Tweed. 

Dryburgh 

We left the charm hanging over old Abbotsford, and 
five miles farther on came to Dryburgh. It is attested 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

by the ruins that the Druids once worshipped here. 
It is said to have been known by the early poets — that 
Thomson wrote his winter of his " Seasons" there; that 
Gower was a monk there, and that Chaucer spent some 
time there with Ralph Strode, the poet laureate of 
Oxford. The first thing that struck our attention was 
the well-guarded approach to the ruins, a striking con- 
trast to Melrose Abbey. We had to leave our carriage 
at the entrance, a good half mile's walk. 

Dryburgh Abbey seems to have passed through the 
same fiery ordeals as Melrose Abbey. It was early 
settled by Christian missionaries, but the abbey was 
founded in 1150 by Hugo de Morville. His charter 
was afterward confirmed by David I. The monks of 
Dryburgh gave their labors not only to the daily de- 
votions of the church, but to the instruction of the 
people. The early historians do not claim an earlier 
date for these buildings than the middle of the twelfth 
century, and most of them later. This is another high- 
water mark of King Edward II's ambition to destroy 
rather than build up; this was accomplished the same 
year — 1322 — that sealed the fate of Melrose Abbey. 
After numerous wrecks it was burnt by Richard II 
in 1385, built up again ready to be wrecked by Lord 
Hertford, under orders of Henry VIII, in 1545, when he 
was adding to his sweet revenge on Queen Mary, and 
so through the years these wrecks have become the stone 
quarries of the nation. 

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SCOTLAND 

Sir Walter Scott, as heir of the Haliburtons of New- 
mains, was buried in their tomb in Dryburgh Abbey. 
His tomb is in the open of St. Mary's Chapel. His 
wife, his eldest son, Walter, and his son-in-law, Lock- 
hart, are buried there. Mr. Ferguson has pointed 
out that the north transept, with its two-bayed aisle 
and its eastern chapel, St. Mary's, in which Sir Walter 
Scott lies buried, was evidently the finest part of the 
church. The north transept has one of the most beau- 
tiful examples of First-pointed architecture anywhere 
to be found. All that remains is the lovely pointed 
window at the east end. Nothing can be more beau- 
tiful than the exquisite proportions of this remaining 
window. It seems most fitting that the earthly re- 
mains of Sir Walter should lie here surrounded by the 
dust of knights and canons, and those of his own loved 
clan, amid the scenes he has immortalized in song and 
story. 

While we were wandering through this expanse of 
church and cloister, going back to the days of romance, 
forgetting for the moment the desolation surrounding 
us, I felt a friendly arm thrown around me, and 
there beside me stood a dear friend from America 
from whom I had parted in my own loved land a few 
weeks before. I defy any one taken by surprise under 
such circumstances for the moment not to have thrown 
aside all the explanatory traditions of the time and 
place by the guide and made the most of the luck (for 

[57] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

arrangement could not have brought it about) that had 
brought us face to face, heart to heart, in that foreign 
land so far from home where we had so much in com- 
mon; for what did abbey ruins, levelled walls, broken 
pillars count for as against a few minutes' heart to heart 
talk with a dear friend among strangers in a strange 
land? 

We walked out of the ruins of Dryburgh Castle, our 
carriages leaving together, chatting by the way, and 
crossing the Tweed with a farewell wave of the hand. 
They turned toward Edinburgh over the land that we 
had come, and we toward Durham, old England. 



ENGLAND 



ENGLAND 

OUR first stop after we left Scotland en route to 
London was at Durham. We found a city set 
on seven small hills nearly surrounded by the 
River Wear. The situation is wonderfully adapted to 
the carrying out of plans that have made a very attrac- 
tive city. The houses rise one above the other on these 
plateaus until they are crowned by its grand cathedral 
and an ancient Norman castle on the summit of a rocky 
eminence. This cathedral was what drew us to Dur- 
ham, our first introduction to the cathedrals of England. 
It was not disappointing. 

The cathedral was founded in 1093. The predomi- 
nant style is Norman, but, like most of them, the various 
additions have changed the styles which prevailed up 
to the fourteenth century. The Galilee Chapel was 
built by Bishop Hugh of Puiset in the twelfth century 
and holds the remains of the venerable Bede; those 
of St. Cuthbert, patron saint, rest in the Chapel of the 
Nine Altars. The old Church of St. Nicholas, rebuilt 
in 1858, is considered to be one of the finest specimens 
of modern church architecture in the north of England. 
Opposite the cathedral stands the castle founded by 

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William the Conqueror for the protection of the country 
from the inroads of the Scots; for many years this was 
the richest See in England. 

In the vicinity is Neville's Cross, erected by Lord 
Neville in commemoration of the defeat of David II 
of Scotland in 1346. There is also the site of a Roman 
fortress, called the Maiden Castle. 

We had so quietly and quickly crossed the line of 
demarcation from Scotland over into England that 
we could hardly appreciate that there ever had existed 
that high wall of prejudice, religious and political ran- 
cor, which, strange to say, we find recorded in the his- 
tories of religious edifices. The story of the abbeys 
and the cathedrals of the British Isles written on their 
walls is one of the legacies handed down, and the ques- 
tion is, which carries the more vital truth, the razed 
walls of Scotland's abbeys, or the lofty spires of Eng- 
land's cathedrals, 

Where the pillared arches were over their head 
And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead; 

where some of her greatest ecclesiastical lights are 
buried? The venerable Bede, who lies in the Galilee 
Chapel, a Saxon ecclesiastic, born in Durham, was the 
earliest historian of England, and it is acknowledged 
by scholars that his greatest work, "Ecclesiastical 
History of the English Nation," which occupied him 
for many years, has remained the best and most trusted 

[62] 



ENGLAND 

authority on the early period. Some day we shall 
understand why the ways of the Lord's children took 
such crooked bypaths to reach the goal of divine love. 
We know St. Patrick was born, as most people believe, 
on the Clyde, and St. Columba in Ireland. One began 
his great missionary work in Ireland, the other at Iona, 
and thence through Scotland. We are told by some 
ecclesiastic authors "that the natural result of the 
Saxon mission was to isolate the British Church from 
the churches of Europe by a wedge of heathenism," 
and yet history says Augustine, missionary to Kent, 
was, in 597, surnamed the Apostle of the Anglo-Saxon, 
and in 600 he became the first Bishop of Canterbury. 

We are sure the impress of these holy men has been 
left in old Durham and permeated the community. 
The Sunday we spent there, June 5th, was literally a 
day of rest, from which many another place might take 
lessons. G., one of the four, observingly remarked, 
"the only activity he had seen in the town was among 
the milk wagons gathered around the water fountain." 

St. Cuthbert, who is buried in the Chapel of the 
Nine Altars, was born early in the seventh century. 
He died March 20, 687. Owing to the prayers of King 
Egfrid and the Northumbrians, he accepted the Bish- 
opric of Hexham, but soon exchanged for that of 
Lindisfarne, but at the end of two years retired, to 
end his life in his hut in the Isle of Fame. When the 
Danes arrived, the monks of Lindisfarne bore his relics 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

with them in their flight from place to place, until they 
found a resting-place on the banks of the Wear, and 
around his shrine a convent-cathedral and city arose 
called Dunholme (Durham) . The chief treasure of Dur- 
ham Cathedral has been the legends and relics of St. Cuth- 
bert. St. Cuthbert of Durham is to be distinguished 
from Cuthbert the Benedictine monk who was a pupil of 
Bede's; another Cuthbert was Archbishop of Canterbury. 
Now that we have seen and felt the atmosphere of 
this old cathedral town and its marvellous cathedral, 
without going into the details — that is, the environ- 
ment of all cathedrals, yet the picture of it all is on the 
brain — we shall take it with us through Merrie England, 
and then to our home overseas. 

York 

The night of June 5th found us in York. For situation 
we do not wonder that the Romans chose it. Some of the 
odd walls still remain to remind us of their occupancy. 
The city, outside of its wonderful cathedral, has much to 
commend it to the student of the fair cities of the earth. 

York was the seat of the general government during 
the Roman reign, and we recall that it was here that 
their Emperors Septimius Severus and Constantius 
Chlorus died, and that Constantine the Great was here 
proclaimed emperor by the army. Under the Saxons 
it was the capital of Northumbria. The Scots and the 
Danes here joined forces against William the Con- 

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ENGLAND 

queror. The city was then razed and afterward re- 
built. Fairfax captured York from the Royalists in 
1644, and in 1688 James II, for its opposition to the 
arbitary measures of the Crown, took away its charter. 
York Cathedral is by many considered the finest 
church in England. We saw many of the fine public 
buildings, its ancient Gothic Guild Hall, the valuable 
museum, its numerous charitable institutions. It is a 
city filled with churches of various denominations, and 
when we had wandered hours in the cathedral, through 
nave, transept, choir, and Lady Chapel, we thought of 
the days when King Edward came to York to his palace 
in the Pretorians in the Roman fortress and built the 
little wooden church where Edwin was baptized Easter 
Day, April 12, 627. Bede tells us this church was made 
of upright semicircular logs, the trunks of trees cleft 
in two, the flat surface facing the interior, the roof being 
thatched — and we compare that description with our 
present surroundings; the rough places in life had been 
smoothed out, what was so elementary for centuries 
had given place to culture, refinement, high art, prog- 
ress, and we find but one solution : it was the Christian 
element after all that has dominated this people and 
brought order out of chaos. 

London 

Marvellous city! We are so familiar with her story 
that the streets, the circuses, the historic houses, seemed 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUEOPE 

like old friends, and we wandered from point to point 
ready to give the glad hand to every old comrade we 
met, and we carried with us something of the spirit of 
apology to hand out that we had not extended it before 
to these old acquaintances — Westminster Abbey, House 
of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, Marlborough 
House, Hyde Park, etc. No place visited filled our 
souls with greater satisfaction than did the British 
Museum. The one thing lacking was the weeks in 
which we could revel amid these riches. 

Of course, we should not think of giving any sort of 
resume of what we did see and do in this marvellous 
place; perhaps one thing more than another that at- 
tracted us was the wonderful collection in glyptic art 
and instructive specimens of Scarabea; nowhere have 
we been privileged to see a broader or fuller representa- 
tion in both these lines of Eastern art. 

In the picture gallery we stood before kings and 
queens, and noted literary women and men, especially 
Sir Christopher Wren, and Sir Peter Lely's paintings of 
Nell Gwyn, etc. As we stood before the picture of Sir 
Christopher Wren we could but wonder if he realized 
that it was the genius of his brain that brought to us, 
through Major L'Enfant, the radiating streets from our 
circles that are the glory of our beautiful Capital, Wash- 
ington, taken from his plan of old London, which even 
a novice can see to-day. These days in London have 
started us on an entirely new vein of thought from that 

[66] 



ENGLAND 

which enveloped our jaunt through Ireland, Scotland, 
and northern England. 

The strife, the downfall of one people that another 
might fill the place; the signs of the rise and fall of 
clans, kings, queens, and nations; the razed cities, 
ruined castles, abbeys, cathedrals, with nothing left 
but broken walls and fallen columns, which are the 
a, b, c's whereby you can read the story hidden within 
and form some idea of the centuries of time involved 
in — shall we call it the moulding of the human race? 
They leave us with the impression that through time 
it has been just one eternal strife, and the climax we 
find in the London of the living present, a magnificent 
city which, like others, has arisen out of the unforge table 
past, with all the accumulation of perfected industry 
and art. 

In passing from point to point, life, in all its activity, 
is spread out before you. There are open spaces; 
Trafalgar Square is the dividing line of activities. 
There are wide streets and narrow side streets; there 
is Bond Street, Piccadilly, The Strand, Hyde Park, old, 
old friends. There is the Thames, with its magnificent 
bridges, its dark waters laden with the world's com- 
merce; its immensity, its world power, its industries, 
its commerce, make London by far the most interesting 
city in the world. It surely is the fruitage of a civili- 
zation that took root with the Anglo-Saxon race. 

Then came a few days' trip through England by auto. 

[67] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

We left London at 9 :30, and we reached Cambridge at 
12:30. 

AUTOMOBILING THROUGH ENGLAND 

Having in mind our own country of magnificent 
distances, where days can come and days can go, and 
yet the end be not reached, we were not prepared for the 
surprise that awaited us, that anywhere in Merrie 
England was within our reach in hours, not days. Our 
first point of interest was Cambridge. We rode through 
this ancient town, among the university buildings, and 
thought of the noted men who have studied there. 
Chaucer, Bacon, Coke, Harvey, Spencer, Ben Johnson, 
Milton, Dryden, Newton, Pitt, Byron, and Cromwell 
stand out before one, and we reverence the place which 
has helped to ripen the minds of men who have left 
their impress on the world, and made it that much 
richer in science and poetry, political economics, and all 
that helps to make a country great. We lunched at 
University Arms and called at "Castle Brae" to pay our 
respects to the noted Biblical students and specialists 
in old manuscripts, Mrs. Agnes Lewis and sister, Mrs. 
Gibson, with whom, through the Women's International 
Press Association, we had had interesting correspond- 
ence and also contributions to the club relative to the 
wonderful discoveries made by them and photographs 
secured by them of rare old manuscripts at the mon- 
astery at Mount Sinai; among them photographed 

[68] 



ENGLAND 

pages of the New Testament, the only copy ever se- 
cured written in the language in which Christ talked, 
and which were translated by their husbands, both of 
whom were professors in the university. This call was 
one of the bright spots in our trip and left a lasting 
impression of what the human touch can do to open 
avenues of new thought, new desires, new aspirations. 

We made Ely that night, and when you have seen 
the beautiful cathedral you have seen about all of Ely. 
The bishopric was founded in 1107; the magnificent 
cathedral was built in successive centuries from 1174 
to 1534, so you find a mixture of early English styles. 
A famous convent was built in 670 by Ethelrade, wife 
of Egfrid, King of Northumberland, and she became 
its first abbess. It was destroyed by the Danes in 
870; the microbe of destruction was still in the land. 
One hundred years later it was rebuilt by Ethelwold, 
Bishop of Winchester, who placed in it monks instead 
of nuns. The women evidently were not militant in the 
days of Ethelwold. 

We rode on to St. Ives, thinking perhaps we should 
meet the "man with seven wives" and learn how it all 
happened. St. Ives is an ancient little town, quaint 
and interesting; we passed Glebe Hall, once the home of 
Cromwell, but six miles beyond we came to the very 
ancient Saxon town of Huntington, the birthplace of 
Cromwell. Every mile was filled with interesting 
history. The end of the day found us at Leamington, 

[69] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

where we stopped at the Regent's Hotel; the rooms 
were comfortable, well furnished, and clean. It is a 
beautiful resort, situated on the River Learn, and has 
wonderful mineral springs. The surrounding country 
is charming, and Warwick and Kenilworth and Strat- 
ford upon Avon are not far away. 

June 10th is memorable, for it introduced us to 
Kenilworth Castle and to what has been beautiful, 
though turned to ashes in the hands of the kings. 
Kenilworth was founded by Geoffrey de Clinton, 
treasurer to Henry I. Having passed to the Crown, 
it was bestowed by Henry III on Simon de Montfort, 
Earl of Leicester; Edward II was prisoner here some 
time; Edward III bestowed it on John of Gaunt, who 
built large additions to it. When his son, Henry 
Bolingbroke, became King it was again vested in the 
Crown, until Queen Elizabeth bestowed it on her 
favorite, Dudley of Leicester. Elizabeth visited it 
several times, last in 1575, which Sir Walter Scott has 
commemorated in "Kenilworth." The ruins of her 
apartments are yet visible. The castle was dismantled 
in the time of Cromwell. It is a sad comment that 
the march of this conqueror can be traced through 
Ireland, Scotland, and England by the ruins left in his 
track. 

Warwick Castle, in all its power and sublimity, is in 
marked contrast to Kenilworth. There it stands, not 
a stone razed from the time that Warwick, the maker 

[70] 



ENGLAND 

of Kings, had them put in place. Kenilworth shows 
Cromwell's power as an enemy, and Warwick as having 
him as a friend at court — one in ruins, the other beau- 
tiful throughout and to-day the pleasure of the travel- 
ling world in going over this domain. 

Stratford on Avon 

Shakespeare's home we found as we had pictured it 
through the years. Ann Hathaway's cottage is near. 
They say Ann Hath-a-way of her own, and William 
soon found it out. The facts concerning Shakespeare 
himself are meagre, and the differences of opinion many. 
Certain scholars and literary men have produced un- 
disputable testimony that he had no hand in the writing 
of his plays, and could not have had, since neither he 
nor his daughters could read or write. Of one thing 
we are sure — if he was well paid by Francis Bacon, 
who feared the wrath of Queen Elizabeth, for the use of 
his name, and helped out of London with a small pat- 
rimony of $5,000, it was not his fault that this decep- 
tion has gone down the ages. Lord Palmerston, John 
Bright, Prince Bismarck, and hosts of others have con- 
tended that it was impossible for any man to have 
written Shakespeare who had not been in touch with 
the great affairs of state, and intimate with all the 
social courtesies and refinements which at that time 
were only to be met with in the highest circles. 
If there is one person who adheres to the old Shake- 

[71] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

spearian theory, please let him explain one of the ciphers 
within the Shakespeare play. 

We lunched that day in the picturesque village of 
Broadway at the Lyngon Arms. We found every 
room in this quaint little inn filled with old furniture, 
pictures, and a most interesting collection of old china 
and pewter. In the village is the picturesque home of 
Mary Anderson, and not far away is Woodstock, where 
we come to Blenheim Castle, the seat of the Duke of 
Marlborough. We were a little too late to enter the 
grounds, and so made our way toward Oxford, where we 
arrived in time to take in the important colleges before 
dinner. After dinner we wandered over the town. 
Nothing in old England had impressed us more than 
Oxford and for what it stands and has stood through the 
centuries. We think of the thousands of men who have 
studied here whose influence has spread over the world, 
and the very walls seem sacred. Old England has 
much to be proud of in her two university and college 
towns that stand out preeminently as the great ex- 
amples, and we wonder how much we owe in America 
to our alma mater, Mother England, for the inheritance 
brought over the seas and planted in a new land that 
has made the United States of America in the twentieth 
century one of the most powerful nations on the globe. 
Not only did they bring education, culture, business 
tact, but their religion, from the mother country, and 
evidently it is a fruitage of a civilization that took root 

[72] 




- 



ENGLAND 

with the Anglo-Saxon race. We reverently said good- 
bye to Oxford when our holiday there was over. 

We went on to Henley and lunched at one of the 
beautiful by-spots of England, and then on to glorious 
Windsor, not noted for the beheading of any of England's 
kings or queens, for which let us give thanks, but inter- 
esting in the extreme from the days of William the 
Conqueror, who purchased it from the monks of West- 
minster, and extended by Henry I, Henry II, and 
Edward III. Windsor was a residence of the Saxon 
kings before the Norman Conquest, but the present 
castle was founded by William the Conqueror and 
almost rebuilt by Edward III, and since has undergone 
several changes. In the royal vault connected with 
the chapel are interred the remains of Henry VI, Ed- 
ward IV and his Queen, Henry VIII and Jane Seymour, 
Charles I, George III and his Queen, George IV, the 
Princess Charlotte, the Duke of Kent, the Duke of 
York, William IV and his Queen. In the round tower 
James I of Scotland was confined. Here is the last 
resting-place of King Edward VII. His casket had 
been placed in the open vault visible to all visitors a 
few days prior to our visit. We entered by the Henry 
VIII gate, saw all of the state rooms, and the garden 
where Eleanor lost her garter at an evening fete — hence 
the Order of the Garter. 

From the castle you have a charming view of Eton 
College. This was finished by Edward VI. 

[73] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

We reached our hotel, the Langham, in London^ 
before dark. Our days in the automobile had passed 
like a beautiful dream; more and more do we feel that 
Mother England has a strong hold on our heartstrings. 

After church the following Sunday we did what most 
English people do : took our recreation by riding through 
Hyde Park, Kensington, and on to Hampton Court, 
the palace of Cardinal Woolsey and the residence of 
many bygone kings. It was founded by Cardinal 
Woolsey in 1515 and afterward purchased by Henry 
VIII. In going out we went through beautiful "Bushey 
Park," full of pleasant rural scenes. "Hampton 
Court " is about twelve miles from Charing Cross. Out- 
wardly it is one of the most comfortable looking buildings, 
it has charming surroundings, on the Thames, beau- 
tiful gardens — nothing more beautiful in all England — 
but the interior is a series of rooms turned into picture 
galleries, and tapestries galore, but without any earthly 
hint that it ever could have been a home for the living. 

While in London we had a ride on the top of a bus to 
London Bridge, taking in many historic spots along 
the way. The days of the literati were brought very 
near from Chaucer down. We realized that we were 
in the selfsame streets where Dickens, Wordsworth, 
Browning, Shelley, Keats, Milton, and Charles Lamb 
looked through their windows out upon the passing 
public. The very doorways seemed haunted, and we 
felt that if we waited but a little their familiar forms 

[74] 



ENGLAND 

would step out. Over all there is a gloom, for "passed 
away" is written and rewritten in London, yet it seems 
nearer to us than any of the other cities of the world; 
we can't help feeling that blood is thicker than water, 
notwithstanding Mother England felt it in her heart to 
give her children a good chastising when they left home 
and set up housekeeping for themselves. 

To-night we leave the British Isles and old London, 
where we have passed wondrous days since May 8th, 
when we landed in Queenstown. We cross the North 
Sea and pay our respects to Holland in memory of our 
ancestors. 



[75 1 



HOLLAND 



HOLLAND 

IT WAS while crossing the North Sea that our 
"Master" G. first called his "class" together. 
The others of the quartette were held to give strict 
account of what they had seen and remembered in their 
sojourn through the British Isles, and when the "Mas- 
ter" G. said, "Well done! good and faithful students," 
we went to our rest assured of what would be expected of 
us throughout our trip. A comfortable night trip landed 
us at the Hook of Holland; at five o'clock in the morning 
we took a train by way of Dell Haven and Rotterdam 
for The Hague. While ini Holland we made our head- 
quarters at the Old Doelen, and without hesitation we 
can say it was one of the most comfortable hotels we had 
found. Everybody connected with the house was polite 
and gracious, and the table could not be surpassed. 

Our first outing was to make for the "House in the 
Woods." The pleasant and beautiful drive we shall 
not forget. We were drawn here because there was 
where the first Peace Congress was held. This is the 
palace of the Queen. We were taken from room to 
room. It was one of the homes of royalty where you 
felt that there were some rooms in which one could 

[79] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

settle down and have some perception of a home feeling. 
It surely was with reverence that we entered the room 
where the Peace Congress was held. The second Peace 
Congress was held in Parliament House, which we vis- 
ited also. 

One of our morning trips took us to Knights Hall, 
where the Fisheries Arbitration was going on. Mr. 
Elihu Root was representing the United States. We 
met his secretary and we all enjoyed a chat and a little 
touch of home. 

One of our side trips took us to Amsterdam. We 
knew that the national industry and thrift of Holland 
reached its limit in Amsterdam, and to Amsterdam we 
took our way. They tell us it is built on one hundred 
islands artificially made by the network of canals which 
are spanned by scores of bridges. Many of the most 
famous paintings of the world are to be found in Ryk's 
Museum. Her national and municipal museums are 
world-famed. And why not? So many of the great 
artists of the world owe their birth to Holland. The 
Amsterdam Stock Exchange is a power in international 
finance; and her banks rank among the most important 
financial institutions of the world. 

The House of Orange is one of the most attractive 
gems of Holland, and no cathedral in Europe surpasses 
the cathedral at Amsterdam in magnificence. Its 
Zoological Gardens, it is said, have no superior in the 
world. And so the hours were overfilled until we took 

[80] 



HOLLAND 

our way on to Marken, a quaint and curious old island 
town in the Zuyder Zee. We took a small boat for 
ten minutes, a tram for ten minutes, and then the boat 
on the Zuyder for the island, a half -hour's sail. As we 
were gliding over the waters, my mind wandered back 
to my childhood and my geography lessons, when my 
father would give me a small coin if I would find that 
curious far-away sea, the "Zuyder Zee," and now I was 
really sailing over its crooked waters. On the island 
we found one of the "dead cities" of the Zuyder — 
because of no progress, no improvement. The great 
attraction of the island is the native costumes of the 
people. The boys and girls dress alike until they are 
five years old. Up to that time they are distinguished 
by the boys wearing a button rosette on their caps. 
Their primitive homes are models of cleanliness, unique 
in the extreme, yet you get the impression of their 
having been fixed to show and not to live in. That does 
not matter so long as you get the picture of long ago 
brought down to modern times. The old delft and 
brasses that shone like bottles made you willing to open 
your pursestrings. 

"No, no, not for sale," was the answer. 

Volendam is easily reached by steamer, and has the 
same typical types; Edam is a little north; Monniken- 
dam was once an important city; Broek (pronounced 
Brook) is also very interesting. In all these "dams" 
we saw them making the Edam cheese. 

[81] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

Our great desire was to see where the old fascinating 
delft ware is made, but we knew, and were told again, 
that the secrets of these old potteries in Europe were so 
well guarded that visitors are not allowed a look, and 
we also knew that many have preferred to die taking 
their secrets with them rather than divulge the methods, 
but we were allowed the privilege of seeing a fine col- 
lection at the salesrooms. 

But Delfshaven itself is full of history in which every 
American Anglo-Saxon must always take the deepest 
interest. The old church where the Pilgrim Fathers 
held their last prayer meeting, the harbor from whence 
the Mayflower with the Pilgrims on board sailed in 
1620; the house at Ley den where the John Robinson 
lived who prompted the Pilgrim Fathers to settle in 
New England; the stone in St. Peter's Church at Ley- 
den in his memory placed there by the Congregational 
Churches of America, all tended to make history no 
longer a myth but a reality. 

One of our trips out from The Hague was at Scheven- 
ingen, the show watering place of Holland, once a fish- 
ing village situated on the North Sea, three miles north- 
west of The Hague. It is a favorite resort for artists, 
and certain times of the year a rendezvous for royalty 
and all that follows in its wake; interesting and fas- 
cinating in the extreme when you compare the quaint 
natives of Marken with the fashionables that congre- 
gate in Scheveningen. 



MUNICH 



MUNICH 

OUR trip up the Rhine took us to Cologne in time 
to see the town and the cathedral. Our one 
joy in the museum was to see the world-wide 
noted painting of Queen Louise. 

The romantic Rhine with its historic castles brought 
its delight. We could imagine Charlemagne in all his 
glory, marching or walking before us, but we must add 
that the much-sung Rhine cannot compare as a river 
with our glorious Hudson. Its mountain fastnesses 
and battered castles give it its glory. An all-night ride 
brought us to Munich. We were in the land of old 
Bavaria, and we would add for the comfort of others 
who may take this route, no more comfortable sleeping 
cars can be found than on this line. We were recom- 
mended to the (Jahreszeiten) "The Four Seasons" 
Hotel on Maximilian Street. Yes, we surely were in 
a strange land; the very nomenclature of the streets 
told us that. 

Munich, a city celebrated for its architectural splen- 
dor, for its admirable institutions, its university and 
works of art, held out its hand laden with riches for our 
entertainment. We spent our days visiting palaces, 

[85] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

museums, gardens. The Sunday following our arrival 
we were informed by the proprietor of the hotel that 
the Ludwig monument would be unveiled that day. 
The procession passed the hotel headed by the Prince 
Regent, who takes the place of King Otto, who is by 
far more of a madman than was his brother King Lud- 
wig. The statue was unveiled by the Prince with 
great ceremony. Crowds upon crowds were there, 
showing that to-day Ludwig's memory is held in re- 
membrance by a grateful people, who do not forget 
how much he did for the welfare and upbuilding of his 
kingdom and beautifying that part of this world over 
which he had control. If he was as crazy as they say, 
which many doubt, more's the pity that some other 
rulers have not a taint in their blood that would make 
for the betterment of their kingdoms. As the mag- 
nificent bands of Munich were filling the air with the 
music Ludwig so much loved, we gave thanks that mel- 
ody had no dialect. 

We have been forcibly reminded in our travels in 
Europe of the misrepresentation by comparison of 
American women with foreign women, especially the 
American voice. We have always read of the high- 
pitched American voice. Our experience was, and we 
made it a tested point on several occasions, that if you 
came upon a low- voiced party in railway or on the high- 
ways they were invariably Americans. We were es- 
pecially struck with this in Munich. We heard so 

[86] 



MUNICH 

much of the loud, high-pitched "ja ja" that we longed 
to listen to the low, refined sound of a gentle "y e s." 
And the German men! What shall we say of them? 
We never went into a crowd that G. did not return ex- 
hausted with his efforts to protect those in his care from 
the uncouth, ungentlemanly behavior of the native 
men. It was not an isolated case that they would 
elbow their way through a crowd, separating a lady 
from her escort. The majority of the men expect the 
women to make way for them. 

One of our trips with our friends the R.'s of New York 
was to the Baths of Kreuth, sixty miles away, situated 
in one of the most picturesque spots among the Bavarian 
Alps. It is a most attractive place and our first look 
upon the Alps. G. was testing the chauffeur who had 
been engaged in New York for a four weeks' trip. Ex- 
plicit orders had been given that fast driving would 
not be allowed, as we wished to see the country, not 
whirled through. The chauffeur made the sixty miles 
in one hour. G. very quietly said : 

"Please send me another chauffeur in the morning." 

Perhaps there is nothing cheers the heart like meeting 
old friends in a foreign land, and when the card of an 
old and dear friend, Mrs. B. from Washington, was 
sent up to me in the hotel, it was joy enough for one 
day. 

The next day we finished our stay, riding over the 
city and surrounding country in an automobile, and 

[87] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

bringing up at the Exposition Cafe for dinner. For a 
time we all forgot that we were so far from home; the 
place itself, the permanent exhibit, the marvellous 
tapestry — we never expect to see the like again — the 
entrancing music, altogether made it seem like fairy- 
land. We parted that night to meet Mrs. B. again in 
Oberammergau . 

The Bavarian Royal Castles of Ludwig 
Oberammergau and the Passion Play 

We had been in Munich quite a week, when on June 
27th we left our hotel, the Four Seasons, en route by 
automobile to Oberammergau by way of the Neusch- 
wanstein, one of the most beautiful and wonderful 
creations of the so-called crazy Ludwig II. Our trip 
took us through the picturesque Bavarian frontier 
town of Fussen, reaching our hotel for luncheon at the 
foot of the mountains; then the walk up the winding 
way, the view widening, the scenery more and more 
grand, until we passed the bridge and were in front of 
this wonder of wonders, this fairy stronghold, the 
Neuschwanstein. It is built in medieval style, stand- 
ing on a rock like the eyrie of an eagle. It has many 
towers and turrets, pillars and terraces, which, when 
seen from a distance, give it a most delicate appearance. 
The ponderous, substantial stonework is subdued and 
rises fairy-like into the light-blue ether. It is five 
stories high; the gateway stands prominently forward, 

[88] 




£ 



y< 



MUNICH 

with the watch tower, and behind it the whole castle 
premises, with the palace and knights' house at the 
west, the ladies bower and chapel in the east; over it 
the defence tower sixty-five meters high. 

The interior shows the spell Wagner and his music 
held over this supersensitive King; legend and romance 
must now stand realized before him. Wherever we 
turn the Knight of the Swan meets us. The story of 
Tannhauser is depicted in his study; the curtains, pic- 
tures, and furniture are gold embroidered on green silk; 
and these emblems are likewise carried out on the 
writing material and blotting book. The chandeliers 
are borne by swans, the portfolios are richly adorned 
with precious stones and contain water-color drawings 
that tell the story of the Swan Knight. An artificial 
stalactite grotto adjoins the living-room, and in this 
room the Lohengrin legend in varied scenes carries 
out the story in Wagner's opera. These were thought 
out by the King with his artists. On every piece of 
furniture we again meet the Swan King with his swan. 
From every corner of the throne room cupids are peer- 
ing out. The gallery is supported by sixteen reddish 
porphyry pillars upon which light-blue pillars support- 
ing a second gallery are raised. The whole room is 
furnished in Byzantine style. The concert hall is a 
wonder to look at; mighty chandeliers and numerous 
candelabra are there for illumination. The wall paint- 
ings represent the Percival legends. At one end is the 

[89] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

place for the orchestra, a dias supported by pillars; 
another at the opposite end is for the King and his royal 
guests; but this hall was never used for the purpose for 
which it was made. The King, who always turned 
night into day, used to pass his time in this room alone. 
Sometimes he would have the whole building illumi- 
nated, when he would hie himself to "St. Mary's bridge," 
that spans the glen above, and view this wonderful 
creation in brilliancy rising up out of the depths and 
the darkness. His bedroom was finished in the same 
gorgeous golden glitter, the ceiling painted in the form 
of an arbor overgrown with vines; in the chandeliers, 
the tables, in the embroideries, curtains, carpets, pea- 
cocks and swans predominate. 

The bay window is devoted to Hans Sachs and the 
life of the people of Nuremberg. The private chapel is 
out of this room. The paintings illustrate the life 
of Ludwig the Pious, the King's patron saint, Ludwig 
I. The love of Tristan and Isolde adorn the bedroom, 
which is a marvel in its luxury, all in the same heavy 
gold ornamentation style. The dining-room was rep- 
resented by pictures of the Menne singers; shiny and 
glittering in gold were all the appointments. A room 
large and sumptuous enough to entertain the lords and 
kings of all the kingdoms contained but one small din- 
ing table, which stood in the centre on a movable plat- 
form, and would sink out of sight by the touch of a 
button, be supplied and sent back without attendants, 

[90 1 



MUNICH 

so that the King could eat his meals without the dis- 
turbing atmosphere of mortals around him. 

Nature has provided the most striking of backgrounds 
for this great phantasmagoria. On one side is a deep 
circular valley; a swift mountain stream, the Pallot, 
comes tumbling down from above where the mountains, 
snow-capped, rise above; across the gorge the fairy- 
like bridge seems to be hanging in the air. As we 
stepped out on to the balcony from the King's dressing- 
room, after having passed through and seen the effort 
of man to eclipse the world in grandeur, we looked up to 
the marvellous work of the Creator before us and we 
could but exclaim, "And yet how the handiwork of God 
belittles the best effort of man." 

We left this fairy dream of a fantastic King with 
beautiful pictures photographed on our brain and took 
up our way toward Oberammergau, leaving its hand- 
maiden, Hohen-Schwanzen, under its shadow, where it 
has stood since the days of Maximilian II, the father 
of the unhappy Ludwig, and for a long time the home 
of the widowed Queen of Bavaria. 

Again we passed through the old Bavarian town of 
Fussen, with its interesting old castle of Bischofsburg. 
The road we followed was crowned on the right and 
left with beautiful landscape scenery. When we reached 
the valley of the Ammer we soon saw the havoc the 
recent floods had made, but bridge after bridge that 
had been swept away had been quickly replaced, and 

[91] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

our careful chauffeur had no difficulty Jn piloting us 
safely over these troubled waters. 

On entering the village of Oberarumergau one's eyes 
are first attracted to Mount Kofel, the highest mountain, 
on whose uppermost peak stands a cross, at once the 
indicator to the world's passing troop of mortals who 
are flocking to this Mecca what the great lesson is to 
be taught by this Bavarian peasantry. 

We wound our way carefully through the crooked 
ways, for streets, strictly speaking, are not known; the 
homes are known by numbers, houses set down here, 
there, everywhere, and anywhere, almost without form 
or comeliness. 

The Oberammergauers have not only retained the 
traditions of their ancestors, but life goes on just the 
same as in the shadowy past when the Bavarian high- 
lander and the Tyrolese peasant had their folk plays 
and religious dramas, which were a part of their simple 
lives. We find a village without form, and I might say 
comeliness, but fascinating in its traditional ugliness. 

After many turns and windings of our machine, which 
seemed almost as much out of place as the veritable 
"bull in a china shop," we brought up at the home of 
William Lang, who is known among the brethren as 
"Nicodemus." How simple, how restful, it all seemed! 
The faces of father, mother, and children wore the ex- 
pression of contentment, satisfaction, happiness. This 
plain but hospitable home was the perfection of clean- 

[92] 



MUNICH 

liness and good cheer. The table was a reflection of an 
orderly household. After luncheon we took a landau 
for Linderhof . Automobiles are not allowed over this 
royal road. We were soon passing beside the Ammer 
River through the ancient monastery Ettal, then along 
the great industrial part of this community, the lumber 
district. Logs which had been successfully toted down 
the mountainsides lay along the roadside for miles: 
here was their material for house building, and, more, 
the material for the wood carvers of Oberammergau, 
one of the great industries of the district. All was a new 
phase of life to us. Soon we were climbing into the 
lonesomeness of the forest where King Ludwig in his 
later life spent his days away from the haunts of men; 
and again we came upon another of the wonderful cre- 
ations of an imaginative brain, the Linderhof. 

This gem set among the green hills, a production of 
the best sculptors, the best artists, and embracing the 
fulfilment of an imagination that was boundless, called 
up the spirits of an age passed by in which he sought to 
give them new life in this wondrous environment, 
which it seems was so much more desirable to him than 
the social environment of his own time. He forgot his 
mission in the world, his duty to his country, but was far 
happier in a world of his own creation and alone and 
apart from all alliance or partnership with the world. 

If there is any strong indication that would sustain 
the Bavarian Government in their verdict, it is that he 

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was lost to all responsibility toward his people, and lived 
entirely for self -gratification. But while he plunged 
deeply into debt, with no outlook of cancelling obliga- 
tions, and had even contracted for another castle to 
excel all others, when the government felt the time had 
come to step in, the world knows the result : poor Lud- 
wig could not stand the humiliation of being dethroned ; 
despair was the fortune that he had inherited. He was 
placed in confinement in the Chateau of Berg on Lake 
Starnberg, attended by his physician Dr. von Gudden, 
and all know the result: the dead bodies of both were 
found floating in the lake. The real facts of this drama 
will never be known. One truth stands out, that poor 
Ludwig II, King of Bavaria, left to his kingdom a 
bonanza in these two castles, for we were credibly in- 
formed that long since the heavy debt Ludwig left has 
been paid out of the entrance receipts, and the state 
coffers are still being filled. 

The exterior of the chateau is in rococo style, two 
stories, the fagade richly decorated in figures. In the 
magnificent setting of terraces, fountains, grottoes, 
there is a bronze equestrian figure of Louis XIV. The 
ceilings of the chateau and wall paintings glorify Louis 
XIV and Louis XV, and rooms are also found for the 
portraits of Mme. de Pompadour and of Mme. Du 
Barry. There are statuettes of the two kings and of 
Marie Antoinette, and clocks, gobelins, candelabra, 
medallions, vases, etc. — extravagance everywhere in 

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the overwhelming gold finish of ceilings and walls and 
royal purples. The dining-room has the same sumptu- 
ous furnishings as the New Schwanstein, and the same 
distaste for company is apparent in the disappearing 
table. It is said the interior decorations cost many 
million marks, and that it was built as a Petit Trianon 
in the style of the well-known building at Versailles 
where Marie Antoinette spent much of her time. In 
short, Ludwig II's royal chateaus have become schools 
of art, for everything from the keys to statues have 
been made in the best manner. In all the "merry-go- 
round" through these castles, room after room, with 
their high ornamentation of gold and glitter, we some- 
times long for a look into one with subdued, soft, restful 
coloring. 

We turned our faces again toward Oberammergau, 
over the same road Ludwig had prepared, even in 
summer, with snow brought from the mountains, packed 
hard that he might take his midnight rides in gorgeous 
state, with his four white steeds and gayly caparisoned 
outriders. 

On the road we came across several boys whose long 
hair and bright happy faces told us they were wending 
their way to the village to be ready for the morning to 
take their role in the Passion Play of 1910. Some of 
them perhaps, in the years to come, will fill the role of 
the Christus or Herod or Nicodemus or some other 
leading part, for all have the hope and the inspiration 

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of some day being among the chosen ones. We shall 
not forget one little bright face looking up to us as he 
was trudging on. When G. asked him if he would like 
to ride, a sweet smile covered his face, and the pressure 
of the little hand in token of his gratitude was more 
than words when he left us in the village. 

The Passion Play 

At an early hour on June 29, 1910, we had break- 
fasted and were waiting for the signal, the firing of 
cannon at the foot of Mount Kofel. At half -past seven 
the signal boom echoed from mountain to mountain 
and through this happy valley, announcing that the 
hour had come for the assembling of the multitude in 
the great auditorium. As we proceeded on our way a 
strange sight was before and around us. The people 
were coming from every direction in throngs; it seemed 
as though every nationality in the wide world was there 
represented; assuredly there was a babel of tongues. 
With quiet and subdued dignity they wended their 
way toward the coming scenes of the religious play. By 
eight o'clock every one of the eight thousand seats was 
filled, and quiet reigned — so still, so impressive — we 
were waiting for the revelations to come of which we 
had heard so often and were now to see face to face. 
The question uppermost in our hearts was, what will 
be the effect on this assemblage and on ourselves? We 
must wait and see. 

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MUNICH 

Before us at the end of the great building which 
covered this assembly is an open space that gives an 
outlook to the blue sky above. At the end of the 
auditorium proper is the orchestra in sunken seats, and 
not visible to the audience. Beyond is the platform 
and great stage outside. The stage proper is closed 
by a curtain, and is covered overhead and has movable 
scenery. On the right and left are narrow houses with 
balconies, which adjoin the central stage; on the left 
Pilate's house, on the right that of the High Priest 
Annas. Next to these buildings are two open arched 
gates which afford a view into the town of Jerusalem; 
in front of all is the fore stage, which is of size to hold 
the large chorus. 

In anxious, almost nervous, expectation we sit and 
wait. Then come the solemn notes of the orchestra, 
and while listening, in measured procession from either 
side the chorus marches in with solemn tread; at the 
same time the curtain rises on the first tableau, "The 
Banishment of Adam and Eve from the Garden of 
Eden." This is a picture of still life. The curtain 
falls, rises again, another tableau is before us, "The 
Adoration of the Cross." There are four figures kneel- 
ing at prayer, young children are most artistically 
posed — the tableau is perfect. 

After the curtain falls the chorus in wonderful har- 
mony implores the audience to follow the struggle of 
the world's Redeemer. Now begins the drama proper 

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with the entry of Christ into Jerusalem; the sound of 
happy voices is heard, which soon assumes the tone of 
a hymn of praise. The curtain rises and a wonder of 
wonders is before us: from every direction through the 
streets of Jerusalem the crowd of people come pouring 
in; men, women, and children appear with palm branches 
in their hands; they stretch abroad the large stage — 
they are in the porches, the colonnades, every space is 
occupied. Five hundred men, women, and children 
are singing and waving palm branches. Every figure 
is posed to fill a certain place. Never has it been our 
good fortune to see such perfection on the stage, never 
such abundant harmony of color; not a discordant tone 
in all this gorgeous display of these costumes of oriental 
dress and coloring. 

The Saviour appears amid hosannahs, riding upon 
an ass, clad in pale violet raiment and red mantle. He 
dismounts as He reaches the middle of the stage; every 
movement is natural and unaffected, and the whole 
bearing is devout. A great hush pervades the audi- 
ence. There the Christ, in form and figure made 
familiar to us in painting and statue, stood before us, 
seemingly a living personality, with the long flowing 
hair, the same chiselled features, tenderness of expres- 
sion, consummate sadness, the same that we have car- 
ried through life in mental picture — there standing 
before us was the human Christ! 

At first there was perhaps a shock that a human 

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personality should dare to try to carry out this role, 
and yet, on second thought, all we know of the form or 
features of Christ has been through art; some one dared 
to give His material reflection to the world, and we 
through the ages have learned to look upon that face 
as divine. Never will this picture fade from our minds 
of this city of Jerusalem, of this marvellous blending of 
color among the moving populace, of the waving of 
palm branches, and Christ in the midst of them; to our 
spiritual sense we were in Jerusalem. 

The first act lasts until Christ has been betrayed by 
Judas and been taken prisoner. 

After the curtain of the central stage has fallen and 
risen again, the porch of the temple is seen, and in it 
sits the money changers, and the hawkers with their 
lambs and doves for sale for the coming sacrificial 
Passover. Christ enters into their midst; until now His 
voice has not been heard — but now, in stern accent, 
He menaces them for their worldliness, He upsets their 
table, and after the tradesmen and the scribes have 
ended their violent altercation, and Christ has appealed 
to the people who were with Him, He takes a rope and 
twists it into a scourge and drives the hawkers out of 
the temple. The doves are set free and fly away, some 
of them soaring above the heads of the spectators up 
toward the blue heavens. 

Thus begins the Passion Play at Oberammergau, with 
Anton Lang the spiritual and material manifestation of 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

Christ at Jerusalem. We were told authentically that 
Ludwig Lang, a wood carver of Oberammergau, Direc- 
tor of the Wood Carving School, is the artist who de- 
signed every one of these five hundred costumes, and 
that it is his sister Josepha who cut them out from her 
brother's drawings, to be made by the women of Oberam- 
mergau from stuffs brought from the Orient. When we 
are told that it is Ludwig Lang who is the moving 
genius behind the scenes, who is director of the play, 
we feel almost like imploring the manager of the 
theatrical artist whose late criticism of the Passion 
Play seems so unjust because so untrue, to go to Oberam- 
mergau, become a wood carver, take his lessons of 
histrionic art of Ludwig Lang; he will find among the 
things he did not know that no "Vienna artist" could 
be stage manager at Oberammergau. Perhaps when 
it is well known that the folk drama of Bavaria is as 
old as humanity itself, that plays have been a part of 
their uneventful lives for ages, that it has been a fea- 
ture of German civilization for centuries, that Bavaria 
has led all other nations in her continued passion for 
the drama, that above all places Oberammergau with 
its environment has and is the only spot where the 
great Passion Play could or should have found lodg- 
ment, the only place where its sacredness could be 
protected, where commercialism does not enter, the 
only place where the personification of the Christ would 
be tolerated, the world will know and accept the story 

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of this simple, earnest people, that the story of the 
Passion Play with all its historic truths exemplified will 
live when other great tragedies will be known only in 
tradition. 

The next living picture represents the sons of Jacob 
taking council over the fate of their brother Joseph, 
and the next represents the priests and scribes discuss- 
ing whether Jesus shall be put to death. Annas and 
Caiaphas, the former robed in white, the latter in red, 
each wearing a priest's high golden cap, and hawkers, 
Pharisees, Romans, high priests, saints, and angels 
are in bitter council against this Galilean, who to them 
threatens the overthrow of the religion of their fathers. 
It comes to us in the Bavarian dialect, and they ef- 
fectually make it a realization that all this happened in 
Jerusalem centuries ago, as now it is again the living 
breathing reality in Oberammergau. 

The next scenes — Tobias taking leave of his parents, 
and the bride in the Song of Solomon mourning over 
the loss of her bridegroom — lead the audience up to the 
affecting scene when Christ takes leave of His beloved 
disciples, and in the next scene His parting with His 
mother. The sympathetic love of a son for his mother 
is truthfully exemplified and in such masterly force and 
touching tenderness that every mother's heart takes 
courage, that the great example in the direst hour of His 
life did cling to and was cognizant of a mother's sym- 
pathy and love. 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

"Thou wilt, dear mother, suffer with me; thou wilt 
combat with me my death, and with me shalt thou 
celebrate the victory; therefore be comforted!" 

The fifth group of tableau is " Christ giving the people 
of Israel manna, the bread of Heaven, and the grapes 
from the land of Canaan, typifying the bread and wine 
of the new covenant." 

Throughout all these changes of scenes and figures 
the music has been in keeping with every poetic move- 
ment. The orchestra, with the chorus in soft intona- 
tions, one moment is telling the wondrous story of the 
past in such simple melodious passages that the soul is 
thrilled, and then, rising to the full orchestral effect 
of a grand achievement, we are told of a new life and 
a new heaven. 

The next scene is most familiar, "The Last Supper," 
which is the exact copy of the picture of Leonardo da 
Vinci. We shrink from trying to depict the pathos of 
this thrilling moment: Christ, with the dignity that 
has become a part of his character, is seated at the 
table with his twelve apostles by his side carefully posed 
in trios, making a perfect balance of the picture, as 
in the original. Jesus rises from the table, girds him- 
self with a towel preparatory to washing the feet of His 
disciples; slowly but with dignified grace he passes 
from one to another, kneeling before each, performing 
the lowly act of a servant, and in loving benediction 
gives unto each the baptism of His holy spirit. When 

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the last disciple has been served He returns to His seat 
at the table. "He broke bread and blessed the cup." 
There is nothing to distract attention from the pathos 
of this thrilling moment, when Jesus, with outstretched 
arms, with a face full of suffering, betrays the knowledge 
of the awful doom awaiting him by the simple sentence, 
"One of you shall betray me." At the thrill of horror 
which runs through the listeners at these terrible words 
the character of each apostle is brought out : the loving 
hearted John leans toward Jesus with a gesture of 
sorrow, while the impetuous St. Peter whispers in his 
ear, and the treacherous Judas, grasping the money 
bag in his hand, tips over the salt with his elbow, thus 
originating the well-known superstition, and all the 
other disciples show characteristically the shock Jesus' 
words have given them. When he passes the bread and 
gives the cup, the silence in that great audience gives 
solemnity to this sacred scene. 

In the sixth scene Judas is taking the thirty pieces of 
silver, then in the tableau we see Adam eating bread 
by the sweat of his brow, and Jesus shedding bloody 
sweat when praying on the Mount of Olives. 

Then follows the taking of Jesus prisoner, the judg- 
ment of Christ before the tribunal, St. Peter's denial, 
the despair and suicide of Judas, and the realistic scene 
of the excitement among the throng of people stirred 
up by the priests when Pilate and Herod send Jesus 
away. All these scenes have been acted with the 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

greatest detail, with great accuracy and consummate 
naturalness. 

We cannot call Anton Lang an actor; he is the living 
embodiment of Christ to us. The only great actor is 
Johann Zwink, the Judas. With supreme compassion 
more than one in this audience followed him with pity 
in their hearts. Many questions are beyond us to 
answer. Some one must betray the Master to carry out 
prophecy. Any one who has ever read the story of the 
other Judas, or "Give Him a Chance," can but ask, 
was that sacrifice also made for us? — one who had 
implicit confidence in Christ's power and was disap- 
pointed ! As link by link Judas was being led on through 
the human meshes, little by little, and finally succumb- 
ing to a sordid temptation, a gentleman sitting in front 
of us for some time had been quietly brushing the tears 
away, but when the climax came he buried his face in 
his handkerchief and sobbed. To many this was the 
climax in the play. 

The noon hour had come; for four hours this audience 
had sat there spellbound. As they quietly passed out 
of the building hardly a face but showed the intense 
emotions that had held them; all going to their quiet, 
peaceful little homes, to be served at the dinner in many 
cases by the actors in this wonderful drama. 

Personally, the climax had been reached. Nothing 
could stir the heart and soul beyond the experiences of 
the morning. We had been told that there came a 

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MUNICH 

time in the afternoon before the most tragic part came 
on, for those who chose to leave to do so. 

We next see Jesus on His way to Golgotha, bending, 
staggering, faltering under the weight of the cross He 
is carrying. Through the howling mob Mary, Mother 
of Jesus, catches a glimpse of Him and recognizes her 
Son. The cry that goes out from that wrenched soul 
strikes to the heart of every listener, as the Son is being 
prodded on by the soldiers. His last look rests ten- 
derly on his mother, who is being supported by her 
women friends and the beloved John. The curtain 
again rises; you see the two thieves hanging there, and 
Christ being nailed to the Cross. 

The scene that follows in all its artistic magnitude — 
the suffering countenance, the human cry to the heav- 
enly Father for help, the earthly form stretched out 
upon the cross, the bowed head, the parting of his gar- 
ments among the soldiers, the last words, "It is 
finished; Father, into Thy hands I commend my 
spirit" — has left the audience at the climax of endur- 
ance. 

The tenderness with which Nicodemus and Joseph of 
Arimathea take the body of their dead Lord in their 
arms, with Mary the mother and John and others gazing 
wistfully upward ready to receive the mortal part of 
the man they loved — the descent from the Cross — has 
left a picture in the mind that will never be effaced. 

Then followed the burial and the scene at the grave, 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

and Christ's reappearance in the garden, and then the 
symbolic glorification — the final scene that of the ascen- 
sion — a climax to this whole play of such significance 
that without it the wonderful lesson would be lost. 

But one confession I must make, that in our travels 
in the Tyrol, through Austria, Italy, France, every- 
where, by the roadside, wherever there is a shrine — 
and they are frequent — and the crucified Redeemer is 
pictured before us in its materialism, I could not again 
look upon it; and the inquiry in my heart is, why will 
they not present to us the spiritual glorified Redeemer 
of the ascension, for which the lesson of a life immortal 
is taught in the Passion Play? This faith-abiding 
people in that long ago made a vow that if God would 
save them from the plague then raging over the country 
they would perform every ten years as a memorial the 
tragedy of the Passion of His Son. The great lesson 
left to us does not seem to me to consist in having de- 
picted the fickle-mindedness of the human family, the 
treachery of man, but in teaching the world by object- 
lesson the life and character of Christ, and what that 
life, death, and resurrection carry with them. There- 
fore, would it not be preferable that all materialism 
should be lost in the finale of the great lesson that Christ 
died but lives again as in the picture of his glorious 
resurrection? 

This to me is the lesson of the Passion Play of Ober- 
ammergau. 



INNSBRUCK AND THE 

AUSTRIAN TYROL 

AND 

DOLOMITES 



INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 
AND DOLOMITES 

THURSDAY, June 30th, we bade good-bye to our 
new-made friends of Oberammergau, the family 
of Wilhelm Lang, who was "Nicodemus" in 
the play, and at whose home we were cared for during 
our stay. We had entered upon a four weeks' auto- 
mobile trip and had soon reached the charming scenery 
of the Tyrol, and the wonders of the valley of the Zillar 
en route to Innsbruck. All day, Alps on Alps had risen 
green and snow-capped, until we reached lovely Inns- 
bruck, tucked in between snowclad mountains. The 
bold-cut mountain ranges glistening with ice and snow 
are seen from afar looking down from their proud heights 
into the midst of the bustle and business of the lower 
world. Among them, Innsbruck is well named the 
pearl of the Tyrol, and it is carefully set, for it is en- 
circled by the guardian embrace of hills and mountains, 
while seemingly so near they do not oppress, for the 
town rests in a broad valley of the River Inn. 

We made our pilgrimages over the town from the 
Hotel Tyrol. Innsbruck contains many old-fashioned 
buildings and picturesque corners. A splendid view of 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

the Alps is obtained from Maria Therese Street, which 
leads into the medieval part of the town with all its 
architectural story and charm. From here you get the 
reflection from the "Goldene Dachl," which forms the 
end of a stately bay-window of the Herzogsburg, which 
dates from the fifteenth century. The roof is made of 
more than 3,400 gilded copper plates, and is as resplen- 
dent as when built centuries ago. 

We visited the Court Church, which contains the 
huge tomb of Kaiser Maximilian, surrounded by 
twenty-eight life-sized figures in bronze — works of 
most artistic merit. 

The hours we spent in peeping through the hedges 
and byways of this interesting city, the lessons that 
came back of the earlier days when a high potentate of 
Austria, Archduke Ferdinand, loitered and sought the 
hand of the beautiful bourgeoise maiden, brought in a 
flood light of memories that had to be readjusted to 
time and place. The bronze monument to Andreas 
Hofer, on Mount Isel, brought back the intrepid leader 
and what he suffered. 

We left Innsbruck by way of the beautiful Brenner 
Pass, leaving the snow-crowned mountains of Inns- 
bruck behind us. We lunched at Mulbach at the Hotel 
Sonne. A sturdy looking set of people we saw as we 
passed township after township in these Tyrolean hills 
and mountains. Many of the homes are pictures in 
themselves. The lower story of a Tyrolean house is 

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INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 

usually made of masonry and whitewashed, and above 
is woodwork of a brown hue. Doors and windows are 
painted in manifold ways, and there is always a row of 
flower pots on the balconies. 

We are lured on through these medieval scenes and 
cozy villages, until, lo! we are in the land of the Dolo- 
mites. We are told by our "Master" that Dolomite 
came from Professor Dolomieu, the French scientist and 
professor of mineralogy, who discovered their forma- 
tion to be a combine of carbonate of limestone and car- 
bonate of magnesia resembling chalk. The Dolomite 
mountains are largely formed of that material, from 
which they take their name. The professor's theory is 
that these mountains were once submerged and built 
up by countless billions of small insects, the same proc- 
ess that builds the coral reefs. In the multitude of 
ridges, reaching a mile and more above our heads, we 
are surely looking upon castles in the air; you see 
obelisks and towers, pyramids, chimneys, castles with 
stately windows, cathedrals with nave and steeples, 
and it seems as though the great cathedral architects of 
Europe must have got their wonderful suggestions in 
nature's lessons written in the Dolomites. Of course, 
in the centuries gone the sculptors of snow and frost 
and rain have been behind in all this work, and they 
have not yet laid by their implements, for change is 
taking place year by year. 

Our run of three hours from Toblach through this 

[mi 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

awe-inspiring scenery over the perfect Ampezzo Road 
was perhaps the finishing touch to this most enjoyable 
trip. 

We reached Cortina at 4 :30 p. m. This town, which 
once belonged to Italy, is now in Austria. Our stop- 
ping-place was just outside the village at the Hotel 
Faloria, situated on the side of the mountains. Many 
Americans are visitors at this house, and here we had 
our first sight of the evening or afterglow of the Alps — 
beautiful beyond expression; domes and spires miles 
away were brought close to hand, and, beyond, the 
blue skies of Italy, then the threshold of mystery. 

When we sat down to the table in the dining-room 
we gave thanks that chickens and eggs did not change 
with the transfer to different countries, as do language 
and money. 

We did not forget that in this vicinity at Pieve di 
Cadore Titian was born and reared, and here he first 
brought forth his God-given talent. As this part of 
this country belonged to Italy at the time, it was most 
natural that he should be called a son of Venice after 
his years of masterly work which made him the light 
of the world in art. 

On leaving Cortina we entered the Falzarago Pass; 
again we were in the wonderful Dolomite region. Up, 
up, we went into cloudland, with snows beneath us; 
smoothly our auto climbed these heights; surely we had 
reached the pearl of the Tyrolean Mountains; after 

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INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 

a three hours' climb we dropped down to Botzen among 
the vineyards of northern Italy. 

Our comfortable home at the Hotel Bristol brought 
us into touch again with friends from America and 
letters from dear friends at home. We motored to 
Meran and took in the many attractions that called 
our citizen Stoddard to give up life in America to make 
his home here for years. 

We left Botzen July 4th and crossed Mendal Pass, 
and reached Sondria that night. Out of our hotel 
windows in the morning we had a view of the marvellous 
statue of Garibaldi. This attractive little town is also 
nestled in a valley surrounded by its protectors, the 
mountains. Often during these "Rip van Winkle" 
rides over these mountain passes did the marvellous 
feats of Hannibal come to mind, and his march through 
Italy, and his comment on what he called a defeat by 
Fabius. 

"I told you," he said, "the cloud of the mountains 
would shed its lightnings." 

And so they do to-day; and the highways of travel 
over the Alps made possible by Napoleon brought forth 
a flood of recollections which kept mind and heart astir. 

Our next objective point was Lake Como. Every 
rod of the way was so attractive that the ride of one 
hundred and fifty miles seemed short. We found a 
complete resting-place at the Grand Hotel Villa d'Este. 
The following day we reached Stresa on Lake Maggiore. 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

While being detained there for repairs on the road over 
Mendal Pass, we visited the island "Isola Bella," of 
world-wide fame, and the castle berg, attractive and 
made famous by its beautiful garden and rare plants and 
trees. To wander along the shores at twilight, hear 
the gentle lapping of the oars mingled with the songs 
of the boatmen far and near — for Italians are singing 
ever — to do this in an atmosphere laden with the scent 
of roses, with the mountain sentinels sinking into the 
shadows of night, is to get a faint glimpse at least of 
the charm of which the poets have sung for centuries 
upon centuries. The surroundings are considered by 
many the most attractive in the world. And then the 
Simplon Pass, made passable by Napoleon, demands 
quite as much admiration as the Simplon Tunnel, a 
later achievement. Over this pass we began our steady 
way on July 8th, stopping for lunch at Brigue,and reach- 
ing Montreux at sunset. Never shall we forget that 
golden sunset over Lake Geneva. After being a "shut- 
in" for three weeks in the mountains, every ray seemed 
like a love message from our far-away Western home. 
The next morning a beckon from our "Master" put 
us in readiness for our onward trip to Chamonix, a stop 
at Geneva for lunch and on across the Rhone, through 
the Mont Blanc gorge, reaching our hotel before dark, 
blessed with a perfectly clear sky. The afterglow on 
Mont Blanc was one rarely to be seen, we were told, 
and surely never to be forgotten. G., with the chauf- 

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INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 

feur, climbed up the Mer de Glace, the rest of us con- 
tent to be lookers-on; the satisfaction of which words 
cannot express. We are glad to think of her there as 
steadfast, unchangeable, where neither strife nor poli- 
tics nor power can take away her glory. 

We left Chamonix at 9 :00 a. m. and lunched at Albert- 
ville, and at 4:00 p. m. we stopped for rest and tea at 
the Chateau Chateaubriant, and then on for the Dau- 
phine Chartreuse route in search of Hotel Chartreuse, 
a monastery transformed into a hotel, which flaming 
posters had announced en route. The wild ride up the 
gorge, the most beautiful of any yet seen, but weird 
and uncertain ; every turn in the road called for a toot 
of the "emperor's horn" from the "Master" to warn 
others — darkness coming on and rain setting in — it 
was so weird and "scary" that it was all most enjoyable. 
We reached the Chartreuse, but no transformation had 
taken place and no place for travellers! We were di- 
rected through a short gorge to an old-fashioned tavern, 
clean and wholesome, where they cared for the travellers 
bound for Charteux. We dropped into Grenoble the 
next day; our southernmost point of this route had 
been reached. We were 290 miles southeast of Paris. 
The old port on the north side of the River Isere has 
interesting buildings, halls of justice, episcopal palaces, 
convents, and arsenals and citadels. The city seems 
to be famous for the manufacture of kid gloves. As we 
were passing through a street that led out of the city 

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we were struck by the women on the narrow sidewalk 
with their small round sewing machines, making gloves. 
I remarked that I never knew the famous Grenoble 
gloves were "farmed out" to be made, as was the old- 
time way of shoe binding in the United States. A few 
rods farther on, in a barnyard, surrounded by geese, 
chickens, turkeys, and pigs, sat a woman with her sew- 
ing machine, her lap and hands filled with long white 
gloves, going through the process of manufacture. 
But let us look at the other side of these women's lives. 
Their work was brought to them, and when completed 
was gathered up ; they were elbow to elbow, and chatted 
and gossiped in a neighborly way, and then the few 
pennies that came into the larder helped in the purchase 
of life's necessities. But we noticed the same lack of 
grass, trees, and flowers that we had noticed so much in 
the villages on the way. Houses built of gray stone, 
solidly and together, one straight street, barns and 
stables an adjunct — we often remarked how we would 
like to set those people down in many of the attractive 
villages of the United States, every home having its 
lawn and shade trees, playgrounds and parks. It was 
suggested that this old-world plan of crowding together 
was for protection while the tilling of the land was being 
done miles away. 

July 13th brought us to Aix les Bains, the pleasant 
rendezvous of Europe for health and recuperation. A 
charm hung over the place, but of course to an American 

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C '3 

ua 
in -2 



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INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 

it struck us as novel to see patients in the fashionable 
hotel prepared in their rooms for a bath and placed in 
a chair surrounded by curtains, let down in an elevator, 
wheeled some squares away, where they were put 
through the process, and returned; and undoubtedly 
in time restored to health, or Aix les Bains would not 
have so many annual visitors. We recalled the many 
springs of this kind in our land where luxury, good liv- 
ing, and health-giving baths are all to be found under 
the same roof, and no exposure to the outside world. 

The next day we were again back in Geneva at the 
Hotel Beaux Revage. During this stay we took the 
occasion to call at the Chateau de Lancy, a short drive 
out of town, charmingly situated, a school for boys 
where Mrs. B., the friend we met in Munich, had placed 
her two boys years before under the tutorage of Mr. 
and Mrs. Brunei. The location is superb, and off to the 
east Mont Blanc again gives us welcome. 

The 15th of July we found ourselves in Berne, and of 
course we found our way to the bear garden, and while 
waiting for the clock to strike twelve to see the bears 
fed (one of the things to do in Berne), we saw a baby 
bear up a tree try to come down; he swung with his 
forepaws but could not reach the lower limb; he cried 
like a child. The old bear came out, scolded him, and 
probably told him what to do. He moved along the 
limb, tried again, and when he found he had clutched 
the lower limb, he laughed aloud like a baby, and the 

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old bear stood with open arms to receive him. The 
bear is the heraldic animal of Berne, hence its name. 
The high clock tower built by Berchtold in 1191 is near 
the centre of the city. Every hour its works set in 
motion puppets which represent a cock, a procession of 
bears, and a bearded old man with an hourglass, who 
strikes a bell, and of course hundreds on the way to and 
fro stop to see it perform. 

Berne is beautiful in its situation, as most Swiss 
cities are, hid in among the Bernese Alps. A day's 
ride through quaint villages and along fields busy with 
harvesters brought us to Basle, where we stopped at 
the Three Kings Hotel, which stands on the banks of 
the Rhine. The river makes a sudden turn here and 
takes a course to the north to the outlet. After leaving 
Basle en route for the Black Forest, we lunched at 
Freiburg, and reached Titisee in the Black Forest July 
17th, after crossing a pass over the mountains. It 
was Sunday, and all the peasants were in holiday peasant 
dress, which was most interesting. The place is beau- 
tiful and unique for situation, but is merely the gateway 
to the Black Forest. The next day we came to Triberg, 
lunched at the Central Hotel, and walked over the 
town, took in the falls, and reached Baden-Baden for 
the night. We had passed through sylvan glens, glori- 
fied passes, vineclad valleys, cultivated fields, flowering 
meadows, homes in the country, mountains somewhat 
in the distance covered to the summit in everlasting 

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INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 

greenery; and all this glorious beauty is the Black 
Forest. 

We reached Heidelberg July 20th in a pouring rain, 
and rode up the mountains to Hotel Schloss. The 
Schloss gardens and the castle occupied us the next 
forenoon. At night — we shall never forget the scene 
before us and under our feet. 

We stopped the next night at Wurzburg to shorten 
our trip to Nuremburg, which we reached in due time 
for lunch, and drove over interesting, smelly old Nurem- 
burg to the royal castle, to the home of Albrecht Diirer, 
and to all the interesting points of which Nuremburg is 
full. We rested for the night through a fearful storm 
that did much damage and uprooted trees that filled 
the roads, but did not dismay our careful chauffeur. 

Our ride back to Munich after our four weeks' trip 
was most delightful, showing no weariness or want of 
enthusiasm for the days gone by — merely extreme de- 
light. 

Our auto trip was finished. What we had seen of 
Oberammergau, the Ludwig Castles, the Tyrol, the 
Dolomites, the Dauphine, and the Black Forest are 
memories to-day, but living pictures are on the brain. 

Lake Constance and Its Environment 

After another stop-over of a week in Munich we took 
the train to Landau, boarded the steamer for a sail 
down the lake to Constance, and stopped overnight at 

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the hotel See, beautifully located on the lake. The 
morning was spent in reconnoitring the town, and at 
twelve o'clock we were on our way to Schaffhausen 
and on to Newhausen and the Rhine Falls. The bal- 
conies from our rooms at the hotel looked directly on 
the fascinating panorama of the Rhine Falls, which 
begin at the foot of Lake Constance. The mind cannot 
draw a more entrancing picture of fairyland than was 
offered us on this moonlit night with the falls below us 
illuminated with many colored lights thrown upon the 
rushing waters and the clouds of spray, bringing out 
the lofty banks capped in one place by a castle-like 
structure. One who is fortunate to be here on such a 
night will carry with him a picture never to be forgotten. 
The waters of the lake are supplied from the Alpine 
glaciers. The Rhine proper is not navigable until after 
it tumbles down these most beautiful banks. 

Monday, August 1st, found us in beautiful, restful 
Lucerne, in the Palace Hotel, on the border of the lake. 
Lucerne is filled with interesting points for the traveller. 
Our first venture was to visit the Glacier Gardens of 
Lucerne. Nowhere that we know does one get so 
perfect an object-lesson of the glacier mills as here at 
Lucerne. The pots, or glacier holes, owe their exist- 
ence to the whirling of stones driven round and round 
by the force of melted ice. These stones, whirled 
around by the water, ground the rock and polished it 
as you see it here. On this small area of ground you 

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INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 

can read the pages of the history of the earth. In these 
glacier mills we have the debris left by the ice that once 
covered the northern hemisphere. Here we find other 
pages as well; one dates from the period when the 
waters covered the land, another when tropical heat 
produced tropical forests; so we see the changes that 
have come upon the face of the earth in all these mil- 
lions of years. Surely these were in the long bygone 
days when these glaciers were descending from the Alps 
that the mills of the Glacier Garden were formed. 

The Lake Dwellers 

Some years ago I wrote for the Cosmopolitan Maga- 
zine a short history of lacemaking, or "Dreams in 
Woven Thread." My data for facts came from the 
exhibit in the Smithsonian Institution. The first note 
of its history was from a small dark brown piece of net- 
ting taken from the relics of the Lake Dwellers of Lake 
Zurich. What was my delight to find in passing through 
the Labyrinth, or Moorish palace, a model of one of 
these lacustrine settlements; at some distance from the 
shore of the lake square low huts made of plaited clay 
and straw, built on wooden structures; a long narrow 
bridge connects this wooden island with the shore. 
This was a protection against man and beast, and here 
their industries were carried on, and, lo! a piece of the 
fish-net, such as the Smithsonian had secured, and the 
first step that led up to the perfection of lacemaking, 

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"The Old Rose Point" of Venice, was in the case before 
us. In the cabinet against the wall can be seen and 
studied characteristic fragments of the industries of 
that people. 

The Lion of Lucerne 

Of course, the great attraction of the Garden is the 
Lion monument made by the renowned Danish sculptor, 
Thorwaldsen, which is familiar to every school child. 
Above this lion, carved in the rock, are these words, 

"To the fidelity and bravery of the Swiss," 

and underneath the names of the twenty-six officers who 
fell on that terrible day. 

We heard the organ recital at the Hofkirche (Coast 
Church) and rode up the funicular to Hotel Somberg, 
where we had luncheon and took in the most lovely 
visions of mountains and lakes. We were of one 
opinion: Lucerne is a dream. 

August 4th, en route to Interlaken. We ascended 
Mount Pilatus, 7,000 feet, on the cog road, seemingly 
straight up in the air. On, on, we went for three miles 
to Brienz. Here in these beautiful mountain paths we 
heard for the first time, through the Alpine horn, the 
Swiss "Yodle." It touched the mountains across the 
valley and the echoes in sweet tones returned to us. 
Again friends from America made the time short before 
we had to drop down again 7,000 feet into the valley. 

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INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 

Our next objective point was Interlaken, where for 
two days we stopped at the Victoria, and then settled 
down for a month at the Regina Hotel — Jungfrau 
Bleck — one of the most satisfactory hotels we had found 
in Europe. Never was there a "bonnier setting." 
The night we settled down and for the time called it 
home, the bride Jungfrau changed her morning dress 
of pearly white for a most gorgeous pink and stood forth 
in all her glory to welcome us. The crescent moon was 
at our right, just above the mountain top over Lake 
Thune, the evening star keeping vigil over this varied 
scene of beauty; mountains, lake, Jungfrau, new moon, 
evening star, village in the valley — a picture photo- 
graphed for all time. 

By landau we rode through the Lauterbrunnen Valley 
and pronounced it the gem of all the beautiful valleys 
we had seen. We saw the Staubbach Falls leap in 
beautiful cascades from a height of 985 feet and fall in 
spray at our feet, but the most astounding of nature's 
work that we witnessed was the Trummelbach Fall 
from the Jungfrau glacier. For ages that old mountain 
has supplied the water for this fall, and here you can 
witness the glacier mill in full operation: one of the 
gigantic pots, and the millstone being whirled around 
and around and polished by the force of the melted 
ice. So we have a small glimpse of what went on for 
centuries in Lucerne, which is now removed by miles 
from any glacier cliffs. 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

Another interesting trip we took during our stay was 
up the funicular for Harder-Kulm, 1,325 feet. It was 
so straight up in the air you felt like holding fast to 
keep from pitching forward, but it paid, for a more 
magnificent view could not be had of Interlaken and 
the Jungfrau range. We had our tea on these heights, 
and returned in time for dinner. The trip was very 
satisfactory, but exhausting, as most mountain trips 
usually are. 

Another day we again went up the Lauterbrunnen 
Valley, took the funicular for Murren, where the Bernese 
Alps stood out in all their glory; another day by car- 
riage up the Grindelwald Valley to the upper glaciers. 

September 1st, after four weeks' stay in Interlaken, 
we had to say good-bye to the Jungfrau; for two 
days she had hidden her face behind a cloud, and if 
she felt as we did, it was because she had to say good- 
bye. 

We took our way over the Bernese Overland and 
reached Montreux at 5:00 p. m. We found the same 
rooms awaiting us that were ours in July. 

Among the many interesting points to visit, of course 
the Prison of Chillon was one. We went through the 
winding meshes of that historic castle, notable for the 
absence of implements of torture such as we had seen 
at Nuremberg and the London Tower. We again took 
the steamer for Lausanne, and from there another, and 
crossed the lake to Evian, a beautiful sail and wonderful 

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INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 

environments. Again we had put our foot in France, 
and it was satisfactory. Upon our return to, and a 
day's rest in, Montreux, where we feasted our eyes on the 
mystic blue waters of Lake Geneva and the mighty Alps 
along its shores, we embarked again, this time for 
Geneva. Here we met an old friend, Dr. Alice B. from 
Washington, with whom I drove to Coppet, where we 
visited the chateau celebrated as the residence of 
Madam de Stael, daughter of Necker, the minister of 
Louis XVI, and, of course, known as the author of 
"Corinne" and many other remarkable works. The 
chateau is kept as near as possible as in the days of her 
occupancy, and the fresh flowers — surely the touch of 
a woman's hand — scattered through the rooms gave 
a home atmosphere to the place. She is buried in the 
park beside her father, M. Necker. 

Our return brought us through Ferney, noted for the 
chateau which was the residence of Voltaire. Added 
to this long-to-be-remembered little tour up Lake 
Geneva was one across the lake to Chateau Belle 
Reve. For many years we had both known of this 
beautiful resting-place, for each of us had many Amer- 
ican friends who had found this a heavenly haven. 
We were received cordially by the presiding genius of 
this fairy spot. The entrancing history as related by 
her of its occupation by the French, the strolls over the 
beautiful classic grounds, and the hours of rest and 
delight have left beautiful memories of Belle Reve and 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

its charming hostess. We parted with our friend to 
meet again in Paris. Our days in Geneva were full of 
rest and interest, and Switzerland fulfilled our every 
expectation. We took up our journey September 9th 
and made our way to Paris. 



THE CHATEAUX OF 
THE LOIRE 



THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 

THE days in Paris passed with delight, as most 
days pass in that fascinating city. But Paris, 
as we have found, is not all France, and so we 
were led by a golden cord into nearby ways. 

"Yes, Aunt Mary, we will auto through the chateaux 
district of the old kings and queens of France," said J. 
"We can go at our leisure, stop when and where we 
please, have plenty of time to repeople these old castles 
with the kings and queens of departed days, bring back 
the young artistic life of the sixteenth century, and 
as the days go by you must tell the story we will 
hoard up and be ready to answer the 'Master's' ques- 
tions when he calls his class together." 

Thus it came that one golden morning we motored 
out of Paris, bound for the Chateaux of the Loire. We 
had arranged for the five days' auto trip through the 
historical chateaux district; we reversed the trip ordi- 
narily taken by way of Versailles and made our way to 
Fontainebleau and Orleans. Memory was now on the 
alert to recall what we knew of the early history of this 
chateau, or, it seemed to us, to be more in keeping to 
call it palace. We knew Fontainebleau occupied the 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

site of a fortified chateau which was founded by Louis 
VII, who died in 1180. This palace was built by Fran- 
cois I, and here he received Emperor Charles V in 1539; 
in 1601 Louis XIII was born here, and in 1602 Henri 
IV caused the arrest of his companion in arms, Marshal 
Biron, on a charge of high treason. Biron was beheaded 
in the Bastile a month later. In 1685 Louis XIV 
signed the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. The 
great Conde died here in 1686, and we have regretful 
memories that it was here, in this palace, that the sen- 
tence of divorce was pronounced against the Empress 
Josephine. Here, too, lived Marie Louise, and can we 
wonder that she took her boy back home to Austria, 
and that the time came that she would not even write 
to Napoleon? And within, too, are the apartments of 
Marie Antoinette; and we do not forget that she made 
sacrifices to help America. Then come the apart- 
ments that were occupied by Catherine de Medicis, 
who died in 1588, and by Anne of Austria, mother of 
Louis XIV, who died in 1666, and by Pope Pius VII, who 
was a prisoner here from June, 1812, to January, 1814. 
It is an object-lesson in the fine arts to go through the 
rooms in this palace — the fine paintings, priceless tapes- 
tries, statuary, stately furniture — but not one room that 
does not bring remembrance of suffering and heartbreak. 
And where do we look for the balance sheet? The 
grounds are extensive and beautiful, but as we leave all 
these, memories come back and we wonder what the an- 

[130] 



THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 

swer would be if one who participated in the grandeur of 
those centuries would be asked to come back to repeat it. 

Our faces were turned toward Orleans, which we 
reached that night. Of course the dominating thought 
was Joan of Arc, Maid of Orleans. We saw her statue, 
occupying a most prominent position on the public 
square; we went through the museum filled with curi- 
osities, documents, and works of art referring to her 
heroism. The superstitions that governed those in power 
in Paris, the suffering and horror that was brought 
about, the falling short of comprehending what this 
girl saw and what she achieved by listening to some 
small voice and carrying out its mandates, found no 
place in the hearts of brutal men, and so they murdered 
her; but in a later day France awoke to the atrocities, 
and has tried to make amends by erecting in Paris and 
Orleans equestrian statues in commemoration of the 
sacrifices she made for her country, and to-day no name 
stands higher on the roll of honor than that of Joan of 
Arc, Maid of Orleans. 

After a night of rest, and a visit to the cathedral, we 
turned our faces toward Blois, with history and mem- 
ories of the past for future thought of old Orleans. 

Blois 

The history of the Chateau de Blois in the sixteenth 
century would be a fair history of the whole of France. 
We pass over the early days when this site was ruled 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

by the Romans, and the royal chateaux of France served 
as fortresses. Charles d'Orleans, on his return from 
England, lived at Blois, and in 1462 his wife gave birth 
to a child, afterward known to the world, in 1498, as 
King Louis XII. Queen Claude was the daughter of 
Louis XII and became the wife of Francois I, and here 
they lived until near the end of his life, when he 
lived at Chambord and Fontainebleau. Francois I un- 
doubtedly was the founder of the beautiful in art in 
France. In passing through these absorbing chateaux 
one is struck by the classic lines of art and beauty 
prevalent everywhere; almost a divine touch to every 
expression, in every change he wrought in the gloomy 
fortress homes with their embattlements, turrets, and 
moats, which he transformed into artistically decorated 
manorial chateaux. Forest and stream added to the 
beauty of the scene, every vantage point was held in 
mind, and, lo! the miracles in stone that are the de- 
light of the traveller to-day. 

Blois has passed through many vicissitudes; one of 
the most tragic was the assassination of the Due de 
Guise almost under the eyes of Henry III, while his 
brother, the Cardinal de Lorraine, was thrown into 
prison and murdered the next day. Catherine de Medi- 
cis, who at this time was very ill, died a few days later. 
Louis XIII had his mother, Marie de Medicis, shut up 
here, and after two years' imprisonment she escaped. 
Gaston d'Orleans, brother of Louis XIII, lived here 

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Paris 



THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 

later; then came more changes and adornment, and 
here we come upon the architectural touches of Fran- 
cois Mansart. Gaston's death interrupted many of 
his plans. It was here, soon following that, that Louis 
XIV in passing through Blois first met Mile, de la 
Valliere. After Gaston's death it was no longer used 
as a residence, and is now owned by the state. Anne 
of Brittany died here. 

The most interesting parts of the chateau are the 
apartments occupied by Catherine de Medicis; the 
world-renowned staircase built by Francois I, outside, 
carved and ornamented with statuary; one writer said, 
"The stairs wind upward, folding their central shaft 
like the petals of a tulip," and this lovely adornment 
came from the design of Leonardo da Vinci. The 
Salamander is carved everywhere. In the courtyard 
is a statue of Louis XII, who was a native of Blois and 
loved it, and was among the first to beautify it. 

Blois was a place of royal pageants and ceremonies. 
In the year 1501 a great company had assembled in the 
hall of the chateau, whose walls had been hung with 
cloth of gold in honor of the coming of the Archduke 
Philip of Austria. King Louis and the Queen, Anne 
of Brittany, were there with their lords and ladies, and 
four and twenty little girls, besides, to attend them. 
Everything passed off in a solemn and proper manner 
until Claude appeared carried in her nurse's arms; and 
the story runs that the little highness did not like so 

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much display and put forth her voice with great em- 
phasis; whereupon all the four and twenty little girls, 
maids of honor, forgetting decorum, rushed over to 
console and comfort her. This was Claude, the wife 
of Francois I, in embryo. 

In 1814 Regent Marie Louise established here the 
seat of government, and in 1870 it was occupied by the 
Germans. 

Chambord 

Chambord was an ancient hunting seat of the Comtes 
de Blois, and was rebuilt in 1549 by Francois I. He had 
a strong love for the beautiful in architecture, and he 
became a great builder; not one project would be com- 
pleted ere another would loom up in the air. The only 
clue to any reason for this beautiful chateau in this 
forest region was his love for hunting. Here he carried 
out his desire of creating a fairy palace on these unat- 
tractive plains of Salogne, and the Renaissance, the 
revival of letters and arts, the style of architecture that 
succeeded the Gothic, was here to receive its triumph. 
History tells us that 1,800 hands worked on it fifteen 
years. Perhaps the point that stands out to all visi- 
tors is another of the marvellous staircases of Francois 
I, representing a gigantic fleur-de-lys in stone, where 
those who ascend do not come in contact with those who 
are descending. Here we see in most conspicuous 
places the letter "F" and the Salamander, the almost 

[ 134] 



THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 

sacred emblem of Francois I. We wonder if this meant 
that he would hint to the world that he came out of the 
vices of the world unscathed. There are forty-three 
staircases in this structure, and 365 rooms with fire- 
places. The interior of the chateau is left entirely bare, 
with the exception of the apartments of Louis XIV, 
which he had fitted up in keeping with the time. It 
was purchased by subscription and presented to the 
Due de Bordeaux on his birth, and he assumed in 
consequence the title of Comte de Chambord. The 
government has several times made attempts to rescue 
it, but it continues to belong to the ducal house of 
Parma of Austrian nationality. Wait until some na- 
tional strife turns on a new light for new developments. 

Chaumont 

Originally Chaumont was a feudal castle. In the 
fifteenth century the chateau belonged to the Amboise 
family. Pierre d'Amboise, having taken part in the 
league called the "Public Weal," Louis XI punished 
him by confiscating and destroying Chaumont. In 
years following he gave back the domain to his old 
enemy and authorized the reconstruction of Chaumont. 
Pierre d'Amboise died in 1473 without having been able 
to carry out the reconstruction. Charles II, his son, 
commenced the transformation into the magnificent 
building of to-day, a cross between the early fortresses 
of the Middle Ages and the early Renaissance. 

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Charles II of Ainboise succeeded his father in 1481 ; 
he received King Louis XII and his uncle, Cardinal 
Georges d' Amboise, here at Chaumont. In 1560 Cath- 
erine de Medicis purchased Chaumont. She never 
lived here, but after the death of her husband, Henry 
II, she caused her rival, Henry II's mistress, Diane de 
Poitiers, to vacate Chenonceaux, where Henry had 
kept her in luxury, and to take Chaumont in exchange. 
Chaumont passed through various vicissitudes, and 
many families came into possession as the years went 
by. In 1758 it was purchased by Jacques le Ray, who 
built a pottery manufactory at Chaumont. The cele- 
brated Italian, Nini, had the pottery in charge and was 
the artist who brought out the charming medallions 
in terra cotta which have now become so rare and so 
much sought after. Benjamin Franklin later visited 
Chaumont and Nini excuted a portrait of him. Later, 
the son Le Ray gave refuge there to Mme. de Stael, 
who was pursued by the hatred of the Emperor Na- 
poleon. 

Chaumont is owned by Prince de Broglie. The 
furniture and artistic objects which now embellish this 
historical place were many of them once owned by 
Catherine de Medicis and Diane de Poitiers. 

Chenonceaux 

No chateau that we saw surpassed Chenonceaux in 
every appointment. We rode through a magnificent 

[136] 



THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 

avenue of plane trees which lead to the gate of the park 
containing over three hundred acres. Here the visitor 
alights. Through the park you walk under plane trees 
again which end only at the fore-court of the chateau. 
The whole construction is one of artistic beauty. The 
Renaissance style of architecture is carried out through- 
out the building, a relief to the feudal structures, with 
their donjon towers, which always suggest a preparation 
for strife and turmoil. The originality of the situa- 
tion built in part across the river Cher is very attractive. 

In 1496 the domain was acquired by Thomas Bohier, 
who was receiver-general of finances in Normandy. 
He acquired the property from the De Marques family, 
in whose possession it had been since the thirteenth 
century. As the years went on the many changes 
undertaken ran the estate so in debt that his son sur- 
rendered it to the king in order to pay the debts. The 
Constable Montmorency took possession of it in the 
king's name in the year 1535. Francois I often came 
here to hunt. It passed into the hands of Henry II at 
his father's death. The world knows of his placing his 
mistress, Diane de Poitiers, in this palace; she had the 
arches of the bridge over the Cher built. At the death 
of Henry II, Catherine de Medicis found her day had 
come for revenge for the days of heartache she had 
suffered. She obliged Diane to give up Chenonceaux 
and live at Chaumont. 

Catherine had constructed a long gallery on the bridge 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

erected by Diane, and here were placed many of the 
works of art of the day for which Francois I had become 
famous for gathering together. Chenonceaux passed 
into many hands, and at last, in 1891, it fell into the 
hands of an American, Mr. Terry. The chateau is still 
incomplete, and is said to have already cost more than 
two million francs. 

Amboise 

In the first century a chateau existed on the hill where 
Amboise stands. The town was built by Csesar and 
his name is given to a part of the hill. St. Martin 
established a church here. In 882 the town was ruined 
by the Normans. The castle was rebuilt by the Comte 
d'Anjou toward the end of the tenth century. In 1434 
Charles VII added Amboise to the royal domain by 
confiscation, and from this date the chateau attained 
royal importance. Louis XI lived here before becom- 
ing a recluse in the Palace of Tours. Charles VIII was 
born here in 1470, and died here 1498. He began the 
reconstruction and employed various designers and 
painters from Italy. Louis XII made his home here for 
some time. Francois I lived here in his childhood with 
his mother, Louise of Savoy, and his sister Margaret. 
Francois I was born at Cognac. He was the only son 
of Charles Count of Angouleme. After the death of 
two sons born to Louis XII he made his relative, Fran- 
cois, Due de Valois and married him to his daughter 

[138] 



THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 

Claude, and selected him as his successor to the throne. 
Francois I introduced the French Renaissance. Wher- 
ever he lived he gathered treasures of art around him. 
It will be remembered that he brought Italian artists 
from Rome to carry out his artistic tastes, among them 
Leonardo da Vinci. It was after da Vinci's alliance 
with Francois I that he painted Mona Lisa. It is 
said she was the one woman whom he worshipped, and 
when he had worked over her picture for months, 
Francois came to his studio to have it removed to the 
art gallery. Leonardo burst into tears, and Francois 
told him to retain it as long as he lived, which he did. 
After all the vicissitudes of capture, etc., it still hangs 
in the Louvre. We have profound respect for Fran- 
cois I for his unchanging devotion through the years to 
Leonardo da Vinci. Visitors at Arnboise can see the 
Chateau de Clos, near his own castle of Arnboise, where 
the painter is said to have died in the arms of Francois. 
His grave and monument are in the grounds of Arnboise. 
Francois I died at Rambouillet, and Henry II was 
upon the throne; his wife was Catherine de Medicis. 
One of the darkest hours that ever fell upon this fair 
earth was brought on at Arnboise by Catherine de 
Medicis, Queen Regent, who ruled with the iron hand of 
a despot. From her came the edict to murder and 
assassinate the Huguenots. The balcony is shown 
where this awful massacre took place and where the 
dead bodies were thrown into the river. Here it was 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

that she compelled her son Francois II and his young 
wife, Mary Queen of Scots, to witness the horrors that 
took place there, until her husband carried her away 
in a dead faint. When the butchery was over and the 
headless bodies were floating in the river or strung 
up on the branches of trees, Catherine retired. This 
stone balcony, now as then, borders the state apart- 
ments on the riverside. Down some hundreds of feet, 
over ragged rocks , these bodies were strewn. It is 
remembered that these people were induced to come 
here through treachery and false statements that they 
were called to meet in conciliation council, and the 
world knows the result. 

Many writers portray Catherine de Medicis as she 
was when she first came to the French court, pleasing 
to everybody by her grace, affability, and, above all, 
extreme gentleness. When she became Regent she 
began by extreme moderation. She at one time wrote 
to her bishop, her ambassador to Spain, "to rehabilitate 
gently whatever the malice of the times might have 
disintegrated in the kingdom"; but the sixteenth cen- 
tury lost its notion of justice, and Catherine became 
an apt scholar in the school of France. She surely did 
not create the vices of her time, but she became identi- 
fied with them. History has not yet said the last word 
of Catherine de Medicis. There are many unpublished 
letters of Catherine in the archives of St. Petersburg, 
that when published should throw light on one of the 

[ 140] 



THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 

most unforgivable careers of which history makes 
mention. 

The chateau is one of the finest in France and now 
belongs to the Orleans family. 

Chinon 

Chinon is of very ancient origin. This region was 
first occupied by the Celts and then by the Romans. 
In the eleventh century Chinon was the property of the 
Comtes de Blois. Thibaut III had to surrender it to 
Geoffroy Martel (Comte de Anjou) in 1044, and thus 
it became in the twelfth century a part of the possessions 
of Henry II (Plantagenet) , King of England. Of all other 
continental towns Henry II liked Chinon the best, and 
often lived here; he died here in 1189. His son Richard, 
Coeur de Lion, was carried here wounded after the 
siege of Chalus in Limousin, and died here. Both were 
buried in Fontevrault, where Richard's statue and tomb 
are still to be seen. Charles VII assembled the States- 
General here while the English were besieging Orleans, 
and it was here that Joan of Arc first visited the King 
and made known her revelations, and it was here that 
she decided to go to the rescue of Orleans. 

Agnes Sorel was a visitor at Chinon. Her home was 
at Orleans. History boldly parades the fact that she 
was the favorite mistress of Charles VII and was the 
mother of three children by him, only one more ex- 
ample of the many of the kings and emperors who 

[141] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

flagrantly flaunted their shortcomings in morals to the 
world, and the world had only to acquiesce. If there 
is no gain in the decencies of their lives, there is a gain 
in the efforts over the world to cover it up. 

In 1631 Chinon became the property of Cardinal 
Richelieu, whose descendants retained the property 
rights until the Revolution. Rabelais was born in the 
atmosphere of Chinon. The chateau is composed of 
three distinct fortresses. 

It is not our intent to take the reader into every 
remote corner or nave with explanations, but to people 
these ruins by a brief picture of the men and women 
who have come and gone out of these portals. 

AzAY-LE-RlDEAU 

Azay-le-Rideau has some conflicting histories; the 
first chateau is believed to have been constructed in 1255 
by Hugues Ridel. It is said that the Dauphin Charles 
— afterward Charles VII — on his journey from Chinon 
to Tours, in 1417, was attacked in front of the chateau 
by the Burgundy garrison who were staying there. 
Charles took the chateau by assault, exterminated the 
defenders, and burnt the town, hence it was called 
Azay-le-Brule (Burnt). But very little is known of the 
place before its acquisition and reconstruction in 1520 
by Gilles Berthelot, one of the Bohier families to whom 
Touraine owes so much for the beautiful chateaux that 
are the delight of tourists. This chateau has passed 

[142] 



THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 

through many hands. One gets here an idea of the 
purest creation of the early Renaissance period. It is 
so simple and modest in construction that it appeals 
to one after the many gorgeous buildings we had en- 
deavored to take in and comprehend. Being built 
entirely at one time and with a master mind over all, 
it is harmonious in style and most attractive. The 
last important event in its history is that it was oc- 
cupied by the Germans in 1870-71. In 1905 it was 
purchased by the state from the Marquis de Biencourt. 
The Marquis had previously sold the furniture and 
works of art. The administration des Beaux-Arts 
has taken possession of the chateau and has installed 
a Renaissance museum. Exhibits have been sent from 
the Louvre and Cluny Museum, and various private 
gifts have been made to it. 

The author of "Old Touraine" says Azay-le-Rideau 
should be seen last of the chateaux of Touraine, for it 
is perhaps the most beautiful and perfect of them all. 
So its beauty gains by its association with all that is best 
and most attractive, for in the shrine of Azay there was 
gathered the whole gallery of faces of those who have 
made the history of Blois, of Amboise, of Chenonceaux, 
of France, and the chateau that is happy in its own lack 
of history and intrigue gathers up within its sculptured 
walls the memories of all that was worth keeping of the 
old life that throbbed and struggled in the larger 
chateaux and left them ruined or defaced. As we 

[143] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

wound our way back to Paris we felt that we were 
leaving the history of much of the world behind us. 
We had had brought before us the lives and histories 
of so many of the men and women who had a part in 
the making and marring of France that we were glad 
in our hearts that their destinies had been settled by a 
just and true Father who never misjudges. But let us 
not forget that Balzac, Rabelais, and George Sand had 
their being in this valley, and near Blois is the early 
home of Victor Hugo. 

We found that the court that through the ages had 
moved to and fro among the castles of old Touraine 
gradually turned toward Paris and Versailles and Fon- 
tainebleau. Historians tell us that William the Con- 
queror at the Conquest of England had discovered 
long before the rest of France the defects of the old 
system and had "broken the mould of feudalism." 
And yet the days and the years had brought other 
changes, and we found no courts reigning at Versailles, 
or Fontainebleau, or Paris. The walks and never end- 
ing gardens of Versailles in all their glory feast the 
eye and fill the soul as in the days of yore, but without 
kingly power, and thus we saw how the lives of cen- 
turies perish. 

Langeais 

Langeais is a fortress of the Middle Ages, and is con- 
sidered one of the finest existing examples of the French 

[ 1-14 ] 



THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 

architecture of that period. This chateau was occupied 
by the English during the invasions made by the Black 
Prince along the Loire. We will not forget that it was 
in the Chateau of Langeais that the marriage of Charles 
VIII with Anne of Brittany took place. This alliance 
assured the union of France and Brittany. It seems 
that it is but one continued reading between the lines 
that all this panorama brings before you — the then, 
and the now, and what next? 

Langeais was known as Alangavia as far back as the 
fifth century. The new edifice was built by Jean 
Bourre, minister of Louis XI, about 1450, and is filled 
with most interesting furniture, tapestries, paintings, 
etc. We have become familiar with the old forms of 
feudal architecture at Blois, at Amboise, at Chinon. 
These newer creations seemed the connecting link be- 
tween the old and the new. Langeais is now in the 
possession of M. Siegfried, who has presented it to 
France, reserving the right for himself and wife to live 
there during their lifetime. 

As you leave the premises at your left you see the 
home of Rabelais. Who of us would not have been glad 
to have been a listener to the roars of laughter that 
rang through the halls of Langeais whenever that 
genius paid his respects to the King and Queen? King 
Henry died in 1498 at Amboise. We are glad to think 
of Langeais as the home of Anne of Brittany, for that 
seems to be about all to remember historically of the 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

chateau; and as we turned our faces toward Tours we 
could in our hearts give thanks that no heartrending 
tragedies are connected with the life of the Breton 
Queen at Langeais. 

Luynes 

We still cling to the southern waters of the Indre, 
knowing if we keep on that we shall add to our knowl- 
edge the song and story in many voices of the Loire, 
for the Indre and its tributaries, after winding in and 
out, at last add their stories of the past to those of the 
Loire, and our wanderings bring us to another of the 
historic chateaux of Touraine — Luynes — which retains 
precious souvenirs of the Roman occupation. It pre- 
sents a very imposing appearance, but is not attractive. 
The first chateau was destroyed at the end of the 
eleventh century and was rebuilt in 1106 by Hardouin 
de Maille, and in the fifteenth century it gave place to 
the present chateau. The massive round "pepper box" 
towers with thick counter forts look formidable, but not 
elegant in appearance. On one side is a graceful build- 
ing of stone and brick, which is flanked with the ever- 
prevailing staircase. A magnificent view of the valley is 
seen from here. Where can you find a locality so small 
that is so laden with history as this valley of the Loire? 

Through the strife and the carnage of the religious 
and political wars very many of the chateaux of the 
valley had become ruins. The old feudal towers, 

[146] 



THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 

whose strength undoubtedly had saved them from de- 
struction, had been added to in times of peace, the 
abodes were more elegant, and what was picturesque 
only was saved of the earlier fortified dwellings. Louis 
XI laid down a new line of policy, followed up by Henry 
IX and carried forward by Louis XIV and Richelieu; 
the old feudal spirit was wiped out and a new archi- 
tecture sprang into life. 

USSE 

Chateau d'Usse is one of the most remarkable in the 
valley of the Loire. It was constructed in the six- 
teenth century and belonged to the Comte de Blacas. 
It is admirably situated on the banks of the hills 
which confine the rivers Loire and Indre. The apart- 
ments have much of interest; what it seems to lack in 
the activities of conquest and changing proprietors, 
etc., is made up to the visitor in its gallery, library, and 
works of art, which are most instructive. We leave 
wondering what the recompense is for such an ex- 
travaganza of turrets and towers, salons, and galleries, 
for a comparatively private citizen. It is one of the 
prize settings of the valley of the Loire and should not 
be passed by without selecting the day when visitors 

are allowed. 

Loches 

The visitor to Loches will long remember the splendid 
royal castle, the donjon, the fortress, the black hole, 

[147] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

and all the appointments of strife and war that have 
possessed the world since history began. Loches ex- 
isted in the time of the Romans. It took on form 
around a monastery founded in the fifth century ; in the 
sixth century it was defended by a chateau. In the 
reign of Charles the Bold it became the seat of an he- 
reditary government and passed into the hands of the 
Anjou family, who kept control for nearly four hundred 
years. In 1249 it became a royal residence and was 
the home of Charles VII and Agnes Sorel, who is buried 
in the Chapter House. Louis XI enlarged and per- 
fected the prison. It has gone through the changes 
of most of the royal chateaux — as the home also of 
Charles XIII, Louis XII, Henry II, Charles IX, Henry 
IV, and Catherine de Medicis. The castle was one of 
the most stately of the Middle Ages. The dungeon, 
we suppose, answered every purpose, for nothing we 
saw was more revolting, with the torture room, prison 
cells, etc. It would seem much more time was spent 
in concocting ways and means of torturing the military 
prisoners than in studying the ways of peace. Under 
Charles XI, Cardinal La Baine invented the famous 
prison cages, which make one shudder to look at them, 
without room to sit down or turn around; but we were 
told the Cardinal, the inventor of this instrument of 
torture, was the first to taste the delights of his in- 
vention. 

The donjon, that impressive, architectural "warlike 

[ 148] 



THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 

masterpiece," built nine centuries ago, astonishes the 
visitor by its confident and gigantic conception. There 
are the loopholes through which the arrows and grape- 
shot were fired against the enemy. One hundred steps 
down into the dungeon takes you to the black hole 
for the prisoners where more suffering, more inhuman- 
ities have been carried on, and you can but ask the 
question, will the time ever come when man's inhuman- 
ity to man will cease? 

It is with relief that we turn toward the Chateau 
Royale, or King's apartments, and yet you sometimes 
wonder who suffered most, the kings and queens who 
lived under that roof or their prisoners in the black 
hole. 

It was in this chateau that Joan of Arc brought the 
news of the rescue of Orleans to Charles VII, and urged 
him to hasten to Rheims, where the crown was awaiting 
him. Charles VII built the symmetrical tower of the 
terrace named "Agnes Tower," where her ladyship, 
favorite of kings, presided, but Chateaubriand said of 
such, "They were useful to the country." In this 
tower the sepulchre of Agnes Sorel was erected, repre- 
senting her lying down with clasped hands, her head 
between two angels. Two lambs, emblem of her sweet 
temper, are at her feet. 

As we follow these kings and queens from one chateau 
to another they seem to have been forever on the wing; 
strife and contention were uppermost; they had no 

[ 149] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

steadfast abiding place for mind or body, and we wonder 
if it was not a relief to lie down and wait the call of the 
Great Master. 

Versailles 

The city of Versailles is ten miles from Paris, and 
owes its celebrity to the royal palace built by Louis XIV 
on the site of Louis XIII's hunting lodge, where the 
royal families resided until the Revolution. The mar- 
ble court and the interior are marvellously beautiful; 
the extensive galleries filled with pictures and statues 
of great historical personages and events hold the curi- 
osity of the visitor. Louis XV added the theatre and 
other buildings. The most brilliant of the reigns of 
Louis XIV, Louis XV, and Louis XVI are associated 
with this Chateau of Versailles. The treaty which ter- 
minated the American struggle for independence was con- 
cluded here September 3, 1783. 

During the Franco-Prussian War of 1870 Versailles 
became the headquarters of the Germans; the King of 
Prussia was proclaimed Emperor of Germany in the 
palace January 18, 1871. 

The time we spent in passing over this wonder of 
wonders, and what we saw in a palace that would hold 
ten thousand of the royal court if necessary, could not 
be told in detail here. This entire court was surrounded 
with everything art could supply or the demand for 
luxury could suggest. During the Revolution much of 

[150] 



THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 

the furniture was sold and the pictures transferred to 
the Louvre. 

The place is intimately associated with the zenith and 
decadence of the reign of Louis XIV. In 1684, after the 
death of Marie Therese, Louis XIV married Madame 
de Main tenon, who soon became the dominant power 
at court. This was followed by the court of Louis XV, 
which history says soon degenerated into a boudoir 
ruled by Madame de Pompadour and Madame du 
Barry. It was during the reign of Louis XVI, in 1774, 
that differences of public opinion and divisions in the 
court brought on the French Revolution. 

The Gardens of Versailles 

The gardens were laid out 1667-88 and are very much 
in the condition now as then. A more artificial arrange- 
ment could hardly be conceived. It is very evident 
the landscape gardener was possessed with the idea that 
symmetry could outdo nature, but the grounds are in- 
teresting on account of their solemn, old-fashioned ap- 
pearance. The fountains are the real charm of the 
garden, and play on Sundays and feast days. 

The Grand Trianon, which adjoins the park, a hand- 
some villa of one story, was erected by Louis XIV for 
Madame de Main tenon. The King was fond of com- 
ing here and entertaining his friends with dinners, 
balls, and sports. Every room was richly furnished 
with all the extravagances of court life. 

[151] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

A little to the north is the Petit Trianon, erected by 
Louis XV for Madame du Barry. This was a favorite 
resort in later years for Marie Antoinette. The Duchess 
Marie Louise also made it her home at times. The 
garden, laid out in the English style, was made for 
Marie Antoinette. The palace and the park are mar- 
vellous. The great and little Trianon enchant by the 
delicacy of their lines and adornment. All the pleas- 
ures and all the griefs of those who have had these 
wonderful environments pass in panoramic view before 
us, and we go back to the days of Francois I and to the 
charming Margaret of Valois, Catherine de Medicis, 
to Joan of Arc, Leonardo da Vinci, through the reigns 
of all the Louis, to Napoleon and poor Josephine, until 
we are sojourners in this fair country, and we wonder, 
what next? 

Our chateaux tour was over; the "Master" called us 
together, and as we repeated our lesson to him, we give 
it to you. 

En Route to Spain 

We left Paris September 30th en route to Spain. 
We passed through a large part of the chateaux dis- 
trict that we had recently gone over by auto. By 
the time we had compassed this fair land the second 
time it had become familiar. France surely is a satis- 
fying country to ride through: much of it reminds one 
of the West in America, notwithstanding the centuries 

[152] 



THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 

behind it. The far stretches of fertile fields and green 
meadows as far as eye can see, and beyond, bring to 
you the fertile prairies of the West in all their plenitude. 

We circled the Bay of Biscay in the dim twilight and 
passed Bordeaux, following the winding way of the 
shore until we reached Biarritz at 10:30 p. m. We 
soon found ourselves comfortably fixed in the Hotel 
Palais de Biarritz, once the home of Empress Eugenie. 
The depot at Biarritz, where kings and queens, lords 
and ladies, and good Americans alight, is more prim- 
itive, more inconvenient, and contains more dirt than 
any country depot in America; and I must add that 
nowhere in all Europe did we find a station that could 
touch in beauty and magnificence that of Washington, 
the Capital of the United States. 

Biarritz is beautifully located on the Bay of Biscay, 
on the opposite shore to San Sebastian, where we made 
our bow to Spain. From Biarritz we took side trips. 
On October 4th we reached Pau, the birthplace of 
Henry of Navarre. The fortress had long since been 
turned into a palace. Margaret, Queen of Navarre, or 
Margaret of Angouleme, was the daughter of Charles 
of Orleans and Louise of Savoy, the beloved sister of 
Francois I. In 1509 she married Charles, Due d'Alen- 
con, a prince of the royal blood. She was highly edu- 
cated, a woman of great gifts and of charming per- 
sonality. She was of great assistance to her brother 
in the days of his prosperity and reverses. The Due 

[153] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

d'Alencon died in 1525, and in 1527 Margaret became 
the wife of Henri d'Albret, Count of Beam, titular King 
of Navarre, whose kingdom was held in Spain. Her 
daughter, Jeanne d'Albret, married Antoine de Bour- 
bon. Under this reign Pau reached the zenith of its 
prosperity. Their son, Henri IV of Navarre, was born 
December 14, 1553. Jeanne d'Albret was one of the 
most famous women in history. She was extolled by 
men of letters, and loved by those who believed in free- 
dom of religious thought. From her castle in Pau, the 
capital of her kingdom of Navarre, she extended a 
magnificent hospitality. Her young son Henri was 
reared amid the hills at the base of the Pyrenees. From 
a delicate boy her training made him strong. He was 
exposed to hardship like the sons of peasants; he was 
allowed to run barefooted and bareheaded, often dis- 
tinguishing himself in games and manly sports. He was 
trained in the freedom of religious thought, which led 
the way to his becoming leader of the Protestants. 
Henri on becoming King of France never forgot his 
native city, which continued to be the capital until 
1620, when Beam and Lower Navarre were annexed 
to the Crown, and from the French Revolution dwindled 
into the condition of a mere provincial city. Pau 
would long have continued to be ignored had not Eng- 
lish capitalists been attracted there by the mildness of 
the climate, and settled there, purchasing land, erecting 
villas, founding clubs, building Protestant churches, 

[ 154] 



THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 

introducing English sports, and thus bringing about a 
revival of the prosperity of Pau, which to-day is one of 
the handsomest and pleasantest cities of France. Pau 
claims among its honored citizens Jeanne d'Albret, 
1528-1572; Henri IV, 1553-1610; Bernadotte, 1763- 
1844, who became King of Sweden and Norway under 
the name of King John. 

Our first steps in Pau were toward the castle. When 
we entered we were supposed to be treading in the foot- 
steps of Louis XI, Francois I, Charles V, and Queen 
Isabella of Spain. Here are seen the same bedrooms 
occupied by them; the rooms are spacious, ceilings 
richly decorated, the walls hung with Flemish and 
Gobelin tapestries, placed there mostly in the reign of 
Louis Napoleon. There are the usual Sevres vases 
found in every state chateau, high mantel clocks, rich 
but uninteresting furniture. 

The first room on the second floor is pointed out as 
the room in which the great Arabic general, Abd-el- 
Kader, and family were held as state prisoners in 1848. 
The fourth room is the one in which Henri IV was born. 
His cradle, an immense tortoise shell, still adorns this 
room. 

Some exceedingly interesting tapestries, representing 
the story of St. John, are found in one of the galleries. 
They probably date from Louis XII and Francois I. 

From the chateau one gets an extended view of the 
Pyrenees and the beautiful valley. This panorama of 

[155] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

the Pyrenees is one of the most attractive sights in 
Europe; the chain of mountains is visible for seventy 
miles, and as we look over mountain after mountain 
rising back of the valleys and the villas, we think of the 
silence and rest, apart from the tumult and the strife 
of men that has been going on for ages, an object-lesson 
that has been there through the years, but has not sunk 
deep into the hearts of men. 

We left the old castle with the romance and the strife 
of years hanging over us, and the question we have 
asked ourselves so many, many times, we ask again: 
Did the few short years of glory recompense for all the 
years of anxiety and violent deaths? 

We left Pau for Lourdes. We shall always remember 
the beauty of her situation, the restfulness of her sur- 
roundings, and the peace that came upon the travellers, 
and the opportunities for study and recreation, when 
they reached this fair portion of their wanderings. 

Lourdes 

It was a beautiful ride from Pau to Lourdes: green 
fields, mountains in the distance which drew nearer 
and nearer as we rode on; the good roads made the 
twenty miles seem short. As we approached the town 
a towering castle on a gray, rocky height confronted 
us. This was a Roman fortress and besieged by Charle- 
magne against the Moors. In the fourteenth century 
the English for fifty-eight years kept a strong garrison 

[156] 



THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 

in the castle, and by the irony of fate, here it was that 
several Englishmen, Lord Elgin among them, were 
imprisoned in 1803 by Napoleon I. We entered the 
town from the east, the ancient part, through narrow, 
gloomy, silent streets, but soon found ourselves in the 
new boulevard which skirts the streets lined with shops 
and hotels — shops redundant with pious offerings for 
the shrine. To the west we entered the quarter sur- 
rounding the Church and the Grotto. At first sight the 
conditions may be a little disappointing. We had pic- 
tured in the mind's eye a quiet little grotto in a retired 
little glen where Bernadotte and two companions were 
walking when the vision of the Holy Virgin appeared to 
Bernadotte but not to the others, and an open pool 
where the miraculous spring broke forth where the 
seekers after health bathe their weary bodies. Instead, 
as we reach the square, while one side is a part of the 
city, we see the Church of the Rosary, a modern Byz- 
antine edifice built in 1889, a beautiful, impressive 
building: four flights of stairs lead to the different levels, 
until you reach the upper church or basilica, which is 
built on the extension of rock under which is the mi- 
raculous grotto. Services are simultaneously going on 
in different parts of the church. In front of the grotto 
there is an image of the Blessed Virgin where it is said 
Bernadotte had her interviews and her lessons. There 
was a large pilgrimage the day we were there. Opposite 
the shrine were seats filled with the pilgrims; the lame, 

[157] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

the halt, the blind were there in front of the altar, 
stretched out on cots, listening to the prayer of the priest 
for their recovery. The pool into which many entered 
was underneath the church and no longer visible to the 
mere lookers-on. The solemn service, the devout-look- 
ing people, the maimed and the blind appeal to every 
sensitive heart. The walls and sides of the grotto are 
hung with discarded crutches and canes by the dozens. 
The fast days and the feast days are most religiously 
kept as the Virgin's message dictated to Bernadotte. 
It is said the pilgrimages increase yearly. The princi- 
pal rites take place February 11th, March 25th, August 
15th, and December 8th. 

What was the lesson of all this to us? As to the vi- 
sion of Bernadotte, something happened, or that child 
of sixteen years could never have impressed herself so 
earnestly upon the Church as to awaken it to a sense of 
some duty undone, some injunction of the Master un- 
heeded, which we believe to have been heal the sick and 
preach the Gospel. "By their fruits ye shall know 
them." Through some influence, the sick by scores 
have been healed at Lourdes; that is well known. If 
other churches are searching out the truth and trying 
to live by it, as we know they are, why do they not all 
of them believe in each other, and that the "Gem that 
was lost from the Church" has been found again, not 
by the Church or a Church, but by the children of men. 



SPAIN 



SPAIN 

WE CAN hardly enter Spain intelligently with- 
out taking a glance at her past. Briefly, we 
will go over her history, and then, hand in 
hand, we will journey together through Castilian lands, 
to the fair plains of Andalusia, and then on to Algeciras 
and Tarifa, the southernmost points of the European 
continent. 

Long before the birth of Christ, long before we have 
any recorded history of Spain, this peninsula was in- 
habited by a people of whom little is known. They 
were called Iberians. These people are supposed to 
have come from the East and to have been driven out 
by the Celts, who again invaded their territory in Spain 
and were submerged with them and were afterward 
called Celtiberians. They occupied the central part of 
the country. In time the Phoenicians were attracted 
to this country, and it is known that they built cities 
and planted settlements along the coast. The Greeks, 
too, founded one or more colonies along the northeastern 
shores and on the Balearic Islands. The Phoenicians 
confined themselves to Andalusia, but so little is known 
of these remote times that we will leave it to be re- 

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corded on her rocks and hills by an invisible hand, and 
we will pass on until about three centuries before Christ, 
when we come to the recorded pages of history. 

The powerful Carthagenians flourished on the north- 
ern shores of Africa; their capital was Carthage; the 
Romans and Carthagenians were bitter foes; the long 
series of wars that they waged upon each other were 
called the "Punic Wars." The Carthagenians, having 
lost Sardinia and Sicily, cast longing eyes upon Spain, 
and two hundred and thirty-seven years before the birth 
of Christ General Hamilcar Barca, at the head of a 
large army, landed at Cadiz. These hosts seemed to 
have been welcomed by the inhabitants of the country, 
for ere long their army was swelled by the coalition of 
the Celtiberians, the Andalusians, and the Balearic 
Islanders. The whole of the south of Spain passed into 
Hamilcar Barca's hands. In a few years he was suc- 
ceeded in command by his son-in-law, Hasdrubal, who 
built the city of New Carthage, in Spain. Hasdrubal 
was succeeded by his son Hannibal, the most famous 
and greatest military leader the world had known. 

In time the Romans penetrated into Spain through 
the rugged Pyrenees from the north. Again the old 
rival nations faced each other, and after two centuries 
the Romans had conquered the greater part of the 
peninsula; but they soon fell into dissension in that 
great struggle between Caesar and Pompey. The 
latter fell. Yet the Romans were really the makers of 

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Spain; the Cartkagenians being semi-barbarians, it was 
left for the Romans to civilize Spain. They built 
towns, theatres, roads, and bridges and aqueducts. 
The Latin language gradually became the language of 
Spain; they introduced the Christian religion; but the 
decline of the whole Roman dominion began between 
the third and fourth centuries and soon dwindled to a 
shadow. 

Toward the middle of the fourth century we find the 
Goths becoming prominent. They lived north of the 
Danube on lands belonging to Rome. Toward the 
latter part of the fourth century they left these lands 
to escape from the ravages of a people called Huns, 
crossed the Danube, and settled on the south of it. 
They grew in strength as the Romans weakened, and 
finally, in 410, defeated the Roman emperor, and under 
their King, Alaric, invaded Italy, capturing and sacking 
Rome. A peace was concluded: the Goths were to re- 
ceive certain lands in Spain on which to settle. Thereby, 
in 414, the Gothic rule began in Spain, which was to 
last three hundred years. The Gothic kings were 
thirty-six in number, and they made the ancient city 
of Toledo their capital. By the close of the seventh 
century the strength of the nation was gone; the con- 
stant feuds between the priesthood, monarchy, and the 
aristocracy had done the work. The last two Gothic 
kings were Witiza and his cousin Roderick, who is 
known in history as the last of the Gothic kings. Wit- 

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iza had a brother-in-law named Julian who controlled 
the southern provinces and the African cities of Ceuta 
and Tangier. A new power had sprung up in Africa 
quite as strong as the Carthagenians were a thousand 
years before. They were the Moors, the followers of 
Mahomet. They were a restless, ambitious race, and 
sought new worlds to conquer. 

When the Gothic reign began to weaken in 711 a 
daring Moorish leader, Tarik el Tuerto, landed in Spain 
with 7,000 men, which was largely reinforced soon after 
they pitched their tents on Gibraltar, and they had a 
skirmish with Duke Theodomir, governor of Andalusia. 
Tarik advanced and met the Goths, who had assembled 
a large army but were not equal to the Moors in military 
tactics. The western part of Africa was inhabited by 
the barbaric Berbers; they it was who first entered 
Spain from Africa, and they it was who fought the first 
battle under Tarik in Spain against Roderick and the 
Goths, called the Battle of the Guadalette. Roderick 
witnessed the defeat of his subjects and the ruin of his 
kingdom; city after city gave way after but a feeble de- 
fence, when the gates were opened. Thus the Goths 
were conquered by the Moorish invaders. 

Pelayo, a Gothic nobleman, escaped, and later gath- 
ered a few from the scattered soldiers and found a re- 
treat in the sierras in Asturias ; his number soon grew to 
be a large army, and seven years after the Battle of 
Guadalette they declared him king. Here also was a 

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remnant of the Iberians. These, mingling with Pelayo's 
Goths, were henceforth known as Spaniards. 

Now began the long line of Christian kings who were 
in the end to win back Spain. Pelayo led his men from 
one victory to another. He died in 737 and was suc- 
ceeded by his son Favila, and son-in-law Alfonso I, the 
first of the Alphonse kings — a wise ruler. The home of 
the Christians had now extended from a narrow strip in 
the mountains to a large territory — from a narrow strip 
in the north to a spacious kingdom. The south and 
east were in possession of the Moors. Between these 
two domains of Christians and Moors lay central Spain, 
over which the contest was strenuous. Sometimes vic- 
tory was on one side, sometimes on the other. This 
went on for centuries. 

In the meantime, the Moorish rule began to develop 
all over Spain, but there was more or less dissension 
among the people. The Berbers and the Arabs were 
both Mohammedans; the Berbers, from Morocco and 
the western part, were fierce warriors, but knew little 
else. The Arabs were a cultured race; they brought 
into Spain from the East the civilization, the education, 
the arts, of a refined people. 

Between the ninth and tenth centuries we find the 
Kingdom of Pelayo has traversed the mountains and 
forms the Kingdom of Leon; and to the east, spreading 
toward the centre of the country, we find Castile; east of 
this, under the shadow of the Pyrenees Mountains, are 

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the small states of Navarre and Aragon. All this was 
Christian territory. In the course of time Portugal 
came into the reckoning. After the death of Alphonso 
I (1134) Aragon embraced both Saragossa and Barce- 
lona. Leon and Castile fortunes were cast side by 
side, taking up central Spain, Castile's southern boun- 
dary touching Andalusia. In fact, all the Christian 
countries excepting Navarre had largely increased their 
proportions. The conquests and reconquests that went 
on through the years cannot be followed here; the kings 
and rulers that have come and gone must be sought 
elsewhere. 

We will go hand in hand over Spain's rugged moun- 
tains, beautiful plains, into her magnificent cities, into 
her palaces, her cathedrals, her castles, her picture gal- 
leries, and drink from the fountain of inspiration left to 
mankind by these wonderful people of old Castilian 
days. 

San Sebastian 

A visit to Spain will surely give the lover of travel, 
the digger after old history, art, and architecture, an 
added leaf to his album of beautiful pictures, and a 
satisfactory answer to the questions of an inquiring 
mind; often, very often, you have to change the old be- 
liefs instilled by writers and romancers. 

San Sebastian is what it purports to be, a seaside 
resort, the most fashionable in Spain. We took the 

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train October 6th, with bags and baggage, and at noon 
we had entered Spain, and had settled ourselves at the 
Continental Hotel, facing the beautiful bay. It re- 
minded us forcibly of the Golden Gate at San Fran- 
cisco, not so broad and extensive, but beautiful for 
situation. The summer royal palace, an unpretentious 
place, is on a slight elevation to the west end of the 
beach. The bath-houses give a unique appearance as 
they are drawn on to the beach by oxen. The bath- 
house of the royal family is propelled back and forth by 
the same power. Here for the first time in Spain we 
saw the Plaza de Toros (bull pens), but felt no in- 
centive to enter to see the bulls fight. There is not 
much to interest the visitor except the beautiful harbor, 
which was always an inspiration. Our days here were 
of rest and recreation, a good beginning for entrance 
into the land of the Moors and the Visigoths, the 
Iberians and Goths, into the Basque country, where 
still may be found the remnants of that mixed na- 
tion. 

We made an effort to find the American International 
School for Girls, which has done much for the higher 
education of women in Spain, but did not find it at its 
old home, 40 Avenida; the school, for prudential rea- 
sons, had been moved to Madrid. 

In San Sebastian we learned of the uprising in 
Portugal, and that the Palace Hotel in Lisbon, where 
we had engaged rooms, was bombarded, so we changed 

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our route to Madrid by way of Burgos, and so journeyed 
on to that quaint bit of old Spain, and passed the grand 
old Spanish gateway, Santa Maria, into the town of 
Burgos; the things uppermost in our minds were the 
Cathedral and the Cid. We were soon located in the 
little hotel, the Fonda del Norte, where we were well 
cared for. Our drives and our walks carried us back 
into the realms of memory. We had known and read 
of the Burgos Cathedral. We had many decades to 
pass over from the reign of Ferdinand III, when he 
founded this cathedral, July 20, 1221, with the help of 
an Englishman, Bishop Maurice. It was begun in the 
period of the Gothic style, but was not finished for more 
than three hundred years. It is somewhat interesting 
in noting the history of this church to find that the two 
periods of greatest interest were governed by the art 
and grandest architectural achievements of English 
thought, and by the admonitions and advice of another 
travelled bishop who brought home with him from Ger- 
many a German architect, and from whom emanated 
the Gothic architecture in Spain. We think of the 
days when Burgos was the centre of the Gothic mon- 
archy in Spain; when it held all that was sacred in the 
historic Iberian land; when it was the capital of the 
kings of Leon, Asturias, and Navarre; the days before 
the capital was removed to Toledo; the days of Ferdi- 
nand I of Castile, the great king, before he had divided 
his kingdom among his five children; the additions 

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through the centuries to the old cathedral, under new 
kings and potentates. This was before the Moors had 
carried war into Spanish territory and captured the land 
from the Christians. To-day Burgos is bereft of its 
glory, a quiet, sleepy little place, giving one the impres- 
sion of weariness of years having settled upon its tired 
body. 

The various excursions in and around Burgos vary in 
interest; the Real Monastery, interesting us most, was 
built by Ferdinand III in 1249, and is a short drive of 
one and a half miles out of Burgos. In the little church 
belonging to the convent is a banner captured from the 
Moors in the Battle of Las Nevas de Tolosa (1212), 
also a most striking kneeling statue of Alphonso VIII 
and his wife Eleanor, daughter of Henry II of England. 
The Carteja de Miraflores, erected by Juan II, is noted 
for its convent and little chapel and renowned by the 
monuments erected in front of the altar by Isabella of 
Spain in honor of her parents, Juan II and Isabella of 
Portugal. This is classed as the finest monument in 
design and execution in Spain. Another monument of 
great interest stands in a recess in the north wall — that 
of the Infanta Alphonso (1470) at the age of sixteen, 
through whose death Isabella attained the throne. In 
the arch is the kneeling figure of the young prince in 
richly decorated dress. 

Every road and every turn around this city of the 
plains reminds you of its former greatness and glory. 

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Before leaving this city of cathedrals, churches, and 
convents, we must pay our respects to the memory of 
the Cid. Since our childhood we have had various 
conceptions of the Cid; much of it we know belongs to 
the fabled side of life, and yet we know he was born in 
Burgos of good parentage; Diego Lainez was his father's 
name. His mother was Dona Teresa Rodriguez, the 
daughter of an Austrian count. Their son was Rodrigo 
de Bivar, known in history as the Cid, or the Campeador 
(Lord Champion). He was born in the Castle Bivar, 
near Burgos, about 1040, and died at Valencia in 1099. 
We will make no attempt to separate his exploits from 
fiction; he figures conspicuously in Spanish literature, 
but his real history is a myth. His life was spent in 
combat with the Moors. He was standard bearer and 
commander of the royal troops to Sancho II, King of 
Leon and Castile. The designation Seig, corrupted to 
Cid in the Spanish, was given to him by the Moors in 
acknowledgment of his prowess, while the Spaniards 
for whom he fought called him Campeador, the cham- 
pion. About five years before his death he captured 
Valencia and established himself ruler. His exploits 
became the subject of romance, song, and story; so much 
fiction was mixed with his real achievements that his 
identity was well nigh lost. "The Poem of the Cid," 
composed about the year 1200, is said to be one of the 
earliest and most vigorous specimens of Spanish verse. 
The author is not known, but is spoken of as the "Homer 

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of Spain." His wife, Zimena, daughter of Don Diego, 
clung to her lover notwithstanding he had run her father 
through with a spear because Don had arrogantly hit 
his father Don Sanches. After the war that followed 
Zimena is led to the altar by the King and Queen of 
Aragon under arches of foliage, "wheat ears," and "olive 
branches," with crowds of captive maidens dancing to 
lute and zithern. 

We stood on the ground of the Cid's priceless old 
home, standing on the brow of the hill over Burgos, 
near a medieval gateway, where you can see a stone 
bearing the measure of his arm. He lived on this spot 
many happy years with Zimena, going from here to frays 
and to battles; but nothing remains except the stone 
flooring and three carved shields which ornamented 
the front, now upon pedestals to mark the spot. So 
much we had seen, and yet we had not seen his tomb, the 
chest of history, or his bones. Has any one? The 
poor Cid having been carried from Valencia to Burgos, 
he was, it is said, buried five miles off among the hills. 
The mutilated monument still remains. You are shown 
a stool in one house, said to be many hundred years old, 
upon which the Cid's ancestors sat as judges in Burgos, 
and an old portrait of the Cid almost faded and blurred 
out of sight. In the cathedral sacristy your attention 
is called to an old chest hung halfway up the wall. 
This old chest is heavy and clamped with iron. The 
story goes that the Cid wanted some money ; his pockets 

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were empty during the wars. He filled the chest with 
sand and sent it to a Jew with this message: 

"The Cid Campeador wants money. If you will furnish it he 
will pay you back eighty-nine per cent, interest, leaving you as 
surety this chest filled with his richest treasures on one condition, 
that you take the oath by Father Abraham not to open the lock 
until the money is delivered." 

The Jew sent the gold and took the chest. Fact or 
fiction reveals no more. We only know the chest hangs 
in the cathedral. 

We leave picturesque Burgos, the Cid, the cathedral, 
its pictures and its monuments that have carried us into 
the dim past, and come out into the open of the twen- 
tieth century. We are en route by rail for gay, beau- 
tiful Madrid. Our compartment is shared by a Mr. 
and Mrs. M. of Madrid; the gentleman once belonged 
to the legation in Washington. Twenty -five years ago 
he married a Philadelphia girl, and they have since made 
their home in Spain. Our hours were made short by the 
exchange of home news and all the interesting stories of 
her new life, and when we drew into Madrid at 2:00 
p. m. our journey seemed short. 

Madrid 

Let me say to any one anticipating travelling in 
Spain : take little heed to what books of travel tell you of 
the discomforts of travelling there, and even " Baedeker" 

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should be rewritten. Spain of twenty-five years ago 
is not the Spain of to-day. One of the most beautiful 
and comfortable hotels we found in Europe was the 
Hotel Ritz in Madrid. It was dedicated by the King 
the Sunday before we arrived; and so on down the 
peninsula, a new and beautiful line of hotels has been 
built all the way, and the gem of all is at Algeciras. 

Madrid is comparatively new, certainly modern. Her 
great attraction is, of course, her picture gallery, "The 
Musio del Prado." Here are seen the world's great 
pictures of the old masters, of Velasquez, Murillo, Goya, 
many of Raphael's, Andrea del Sarto, Correggio; in fact, 
all the great masters speak to you of the past, and we 
love it. 

Madrid first appears in history in the tenth century 
as a fortified Moorish outpost, situated on the hill 
where the royal palace now stands. It was captured 
by Alphonso VI in 1083, and he turned the mosque into 
the Church of the Virgin de la Almadena, which re- 
mained until 1869. From the time of the Castilian 
monarchs the town was endowed with many special 
fueros (privileges). These fueros provided for a re- 
publican government in the three provinces ; for immun- 
ity from taxes and military service. In 1329 Ferdinand 
IV assembled the first Cortes in Madrid; in 1386 King 
Juan I handed over the lordship of the town to Leo V. 
Madrid was disturbed with new and varied troubles 
through the reign of Henry III and Henry IV. Times 

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were quieter and more prosperous with Ferdinand and 
Isabella; in fact, the most glorious reign in Spanish 
history was when the crowns of Castile and Leon were 
united with Aragon under Ferdinand and Isabella, 
and the Moor was finally driven from the country. 
And now in the twentieth century we are wandering 
over the waste places of a once prosperous dynasty and 
come into the conquered land of the Moors, and our 
days will be spent in studying the then and now, and 
we begin in beautiful old Madrid. 

Our first delight in taking in our surroundings from 
the Ritz was to find "The Musio del Prado" across the 
street from our hotel. The evenings in the hotel were 
picturesque and interesting. A deputation of Moors 
from Tangiers were stopping there while the treaty- 
making was going on. Their striking dress was in 
unique contrast to that of the members of the Cortes, 
many of whom were at home in the Ritz. When all 
was going well the white cavalcade were conspicuous 
in the dining-room, in the corridors, in the salon; but 
when the course of arbitration was not in accord with 
Moorish thought they kept to themselves until adjust- 
ments were made. When we saw the chief enter, fol- 
lowed by his clan, we knew all was well with them. 
Ladies of rank, wives of the members of the Cortes — 
conspicuous by the absence of young women — would 
assemble in the evenings, and over their coffee exchange 
the greetings of the day. Not one Spanish woman did 

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we see smoking, and we were told it was not the custom; 
they might set some other nations an example. 

The art gallery is the great attraction. Many a 
morning and many a spare hour we took advantage of 
our proximity to satisfy the longing we had had for 
years to study the perfection of form and color pro- 
duced by these old masters. 

One privilege of which I did not avail myself was the 
bullfight. The second Sunday of our stay some of our 
party slipped off to the bullfight (Sunday is the great 
day for these entertainments), but before I was aware 
of time enough having passed to take them there, they 
were back, having seen quite enough, and more, too, 
when the first horse was gored, and all the horror of it. 
They came back full of wonder that the authorities 
would sanction such scenes in a civilized country; they 
had had quite enough of "while in Turkey do as the tur- 
keys do." It may be all right for Spaniards brought up 
to know and understand every dexterous stroke, every 
telling move — to them it may be fine sport; but the 
amateur has no place there: to him it is only brutality. 

By invitation, Miss C. and myself started for a Sun- 
day afternoon tea, another Spanish custom, at the 
Alice Gordon Gulick International School for Girls, 
which we had tried to locate at San Sebastian. Mrs. 
Gulick we had known in America, and her marvellous 
work. The beautiful building built in her honor after 
her death is one of the most attractive spots in Madrid, 

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and speaks volumes for the sacrifice she made. Her work 
has been taken up by Miss Susan D. Huntington of 
Connecticut, and every American who visits Madrid 
should pay a visit to the Gulick International School 
for Girls. 

En route to this school we passed the home of Sorolla, 
and as Sunday in Madrid is the day for social events, 
we asked our driver to halt at the gate while we, as 
Americans, paid our respects, knowing that since his 
warm reception in New York and the great appreciation 
manifested for his pictures he had become very fond of 
Americans. We found the artist and his wife were in 
Paris, but we were very cordially shown through his 
most attractive home by the daughter and one of the 
students. The drawing-room, the library, the dining- 
room, and of course the studio, were filled with his 
paintings, much to our delight. The home was sur- 
rounded by lawns, flowers, shade trees, and filled with 
laughing, gay young people as we entered. The charm 
and atmosphere of this home is the supreme delight 
shown by the artist in painting pictures of his own 
family — his wife, two daughters, and a son. The eldest 
is only eighteen. Perhaps the gem of the whole collec- 
tion is the portrait of his wife. The wife says it is 
idealized; he thinks not; at all events, in every detail it 
is very pleasing. As we passed from room to room and 
saw the exquisite work of this master hand we felt very 
sure the art of painting did not die out with the old mas- 

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ters to whom we had bid good-bye in the Musio del- 
Prado, but lives again in Sorolla, taking on new forms, 
more in sympathy with the thought of to-day. The 
old orders of kings and queens for church paintings of 
saints and madonnas, of crucifixions and ascensions, 
have passed by and given place to scenes of the hour 
and the day in the world as it is. So Sorolla, with the 
inspiration that comes from contact with the world 
— with the talent endowed by the same Master that 
gave Velasquez the power to hold the world in admira- 
tion — is painting the fisherman of San Sebastian, the 
children by the seashore of Valencia, the portraits of the 
men and women who are integral parts in the work of 
the world in the twentieth century, and doing it with 
such a fascinating charm, so pleasing a technique, that 
the world is looking on and taking notice of the strong- 
hold art still has in the old haunts of Spain. 

One Sunday morning our party left the Ritz to take 
a walk up the Prado, on which our hotel was situated. 
It is one of the magnificent streets of Europe, two 
broad driveways in the centre, a park from one end to 
the other with seats, grass, flowers, trees; Neptune at 
one point with trident and attendant sea gods; Cybele 
at another point driving her chariot over the powers of 
the earth, beautiful and attractive from every point. 
We were struck by the stillness and want of life; we 
thought the hour had not struck for the gay and the 
festive to begin their daily bout, where all sorts of 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

equipages parade up and down, led by the King's own, 
until he turns his gay equipage off the Prado toward 
the royal palace; five minutes after not a vehicle is in 
sight. But this day it did not even begin. We soon 
discovered the reason. G. came toward us with an 
anxious look. Just then we heard music afar off. 
G. said: 

"They say at the hotel you must come back at once, 
that the uprising which had been predicted for days — 
since the affair in Lisbon — had really begun; that the 
bullfight has been called off." 

We walked back to the hotel, we will admit with pace 
increased, and calmly took our positions to see what 
was going to happen. The music came nearer and 
nearer; at last the band came into view — not an impres- 
sive-looking lot — and followed by perhaps three hundred 
uprisers, more than half of them boys not sixteen. 
They passed by as orderly as a Sunday-school proces- 
sion, and that was all there was to the long-expected 
uprising, although we were constantly told of the great 
unrest in Spain. 

It seems Philip II was driven to choose Madrid as his 
new capital, if not for political reasons, for historical. 
It could hardly be the Castilian Burgos, nor the Visi- 
gothic Toledo, nor the Moorish Cordova, nor Seville. 
He finally, in 1560, made Madrid the royal residence. 
The eighteenth century brought the Bourbons and the 
building of the royal palace by Charles III who came 

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from Naples to rule over Spain. To him is given the 
credit of beginning or completing every good enterprise. 

The royal palace is situated on a height once occupied 
by a Moorish mosque. A palace begun by Philip II on 
the same site was burned before completion. Here the 
rulers of Spain have had their home since the days of 
Charles III. We occasionally betook ourselves up to 
these heights, not only to see the morning drill of the 
royal troops in the courtyard, but also to study the 
armor in the wonderful collection to be found in an 
unpretentious building on one side of the court. The 
building is filled with the world-renowned collection 
of arms and armor, the effort of Charles V; but Philip 
II transferred them from Valladolid to Madrid. The 
outline history of Spain can well be followed through 
this marvellous collection. 

A short walk from our hotel is the Puerta del Sol. 
This derives its name from an old gateway which opened 
on to the rising sun. Here, too, Spanish history can be 
read. It seems that in that long ago Puerta del Sol was 
in the suburbs or country. To-day it is in the centre 
of commercialism; ten diagonal streets lead into the 
open square. The only really historic square in Mad- 
rid is the Plaza Mayor. It was laid out early in 
the seventeenth century and was the place for the pop- 
ulace to assemble to witness horse races, bullfights, 
executions, auto-de-fes. To-day the same balconies 
of the houses are there that held the grandees of the 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

town; they served as boxes for the lookers-on. It is 
said as many as 50,000 at one time had witnessed these 
scenes. The balcony is there that was fitted up by 
Philip IV for his mistress. On June 30, 1680, an 
auto-de-fe lasted from early morning until night. 
Charles II, his Queen and court were so edified by this 
woful spectacle that they stayed the twelve hours. 
A painting of this horror by Rizi can be seen in the 
Prado. What is considered at least one of the finest 
statues in Spain is that of Philip III, an equestrian 
statue standing in the centre of an immense fountain 
basin. 

The Escorial 

An hour's ride via the railway brought us to the Es- 
corial. We are struck by the sameness of the land- 
scape we are passing over to that of our entree into 
Spain — a wild, weird, treeless grayness and desolation 
written over all, a gray olive tree or a lonely juniper 
here and there, which adds to the grayness and lone- 
someness of it all. When you near the historic pile, 
halfway up the mountain, you look sharp to distinguish 
it from the mountain, but the endless rows of small 
windows help to make the distinction. One of the 
stories the traveller will meet with is that Philip II 
vowed during the battle of St. Quentin, fought on St. 
Lawrence Day, August 10, 1557, that if victorious he 
would build a convent to this saint, a Roman soldier 

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SPAIN 

and martyr of Spanish birth, in compensation for the 
necessary destruction by the Spanish artillery of a 
church dedicated to him; but no matter how good a 
story, history tells us that the battle of St. Quentin 
was won by Duke Emanuel Philibert of Savoy, and 
Philip did not reach the field until it was all over. 
Charles V, Philip's father, who died at Yuste in an ob- 
scure monastery in the Estremadura, directed in his 
will that a suitable monument should be provided for 
him by his son. The Escorial was erected as Charles' 
mausoleum. It was Philip's wish to erect a monument 
to his father, to which he added a monastery imposing 
enough to proclaim his piety to the world, also a palace 
for himself where he could live under the sacred cross. 
The Pantheon, or burial vault, was finished by Philip's 
grandson, Philip IV. It is popularly believed that 
the ground floor of the Escorial represents the gridiron 
on which St. Lawrence suffered martyrdom, the royal 
palace standing for the handle, the galleries or cov- 
ered cloisters marking the bars of the gridiron. 
Juan Beautista de Toledo, an eminent architect who 
had studied in Naples and Rome, was summoned 
by Philip in 1559 to carry out his plans, but this 
artist died in 1563, after planning and laying the 
foundation stone. His successor was the great Juan 
de Herrera, who had studied in Brussels. But it 
took the erratic mind of such a man as Philip II to dic- 
tate how the building should be planned. Take it all 

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in all, the Escorial is one of the most remarkable build- 
ings of all time and seems a part of the Guadarrama 
Mountains. It looks like a fortress or prison; surely 
it is a grand and gloomy pile of stone quite in keeping 
with the rocky desolation surrounding it. 

Our day was spent in wandering through the different 
courts and granite cloisters. We came upon two rooms, 
plain white walls, vaulted ceilings, and porcelain wain- 
scots — the private rooms of Philip II. Here the mon- 
arch lived and held audience; here he worked with his 
secretaries, received high potentates, ambassadors from 
different lands; here in this corner of the world, on the 
side of the mountain, Philip authorized death warrants, 
secret assassinations, gave out the word of annihilation 
to weakened nations; between the acts, retiring into the 
church, which only required the spring of a door, to say 
his prayers and ask absolution of his sins. In this 
room is the armchair in which he sat, covered with 
embossed leather, a stool upon which his stiffened, 
gouty legs used to rest; there is the table upon which 
the written edicts went forth which scourged the sover- 
eigns of Europe, which led him to boast "that with 
two inches of paper he ruled the world," but he had not 
reached the point where even a Philip II must stop to 
recall "that a drop of ink will make the whole world 
think." Even the blotting book he used is there, worn 
and ink-marked. More's the pity that it does not bear 
the mark of wicked, ungodlike edicts blotted out. 

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SPAIN 

Near these rooms you pass through a low door and 
enter a dark cell, no light, but quite accessible to the 
high altar. Here he could attend service without being 
seen; here the historic Philip II died. We are told that 
he carried the same crucifix Charles clasped in death, 
and wore the same penitential robes; the same prayers 
were chanted over him out of the same mass book. 
During his long days of illness, when his sufferings were 
greater than any he could lay on his subjects, we wonder 
what memories were brought to his agonized soul of the 
suffering he had inflicted upon others. We are told 
that he "turned his imploring eyes upon his confessor 
and whispered, ' My father, my sins are so heavy I will 
do anything, sign anything, decree anything, so that 
you save my soul.' " 

The building contains the royal palace, the royal 
chapel, monastery, two colleges, chapter houses, three 
libraries, dormitories, hospitals, and countless other 
apartments. The most striking feature of the edifice 
is the church built in imitation of the Church of St. 
Peter at Rome, in the form of a Greek cross. It con- 
tains forty chapels with their altars. Directly under 
the high altar, so that the Host may be raised above 
the dead, is a mausoleum built by Philip IV, known as 
the Pantheon — octagonal, lined from top to bottom 
with dark marble, and sarcophagi exactly alike, in 
niches, the name of each sovereign, with the dates of 
birth and death, engraved in golden letters. Here 

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repose the remains of all the sovereigns of Spain since 
Charles V. The Pudridere in one of the chapels is 
another burying place, sometimes called the Pantheon 
of the Infantas. Don Carlos, the wayward son of Philip, 
is buried here. He is looked upon in history in varied 
lights, as a hero, a scamp, a reformer, a myth, a what 
not. Philip, his father, is accused of his death; that 
he died in prison suddenly has always been conceded. 
Many and varied reasons are given for his death, but 
the one given out as the last was that he died repentant, 
and that finally with a holy taper in one hand and 
feebly beating his breast with the other, he died without 
a groan. The other side and later history say that 
when Emilio Castelar was President of the Republic he 
determined with his own eyes to ascertain the real 
manner of the death of Don Carlos. He went to the 
Escorial and to the Pudridere, with Don Joaquin as 
companion, the casket was opened, and there was the 
decapitated head beside the trunk of Don Carlos. A 
sad comment on history. 

Undoubtedly the church is the gem of this historic 
pile. Its interior is a triumph in architectural effect, 
grand, massive, solemn; on the steps are six colossal 
statues in granite, with marble heads and hands and 
gold crowns; these are called the Kings of Judea. On 
one side, Charles V in magnificent enamelled robes, 
glowing in gems; his wife, Eleanor of Portugal; his 
mother, Juana la Loca, herself Queen of Spain; their 

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jewelled crowns lay lowly on the ground; on the opposite 
side, Philip, right over the cell in which he expiated 
through suffering some of the crimes he had com- 
mitted — there in regal robes; Don Carlos and his other 
son Philip III and his four queens — a constant lesson of 
the studied hypocrisy the world has had to put up 
with. 

Toledo 

Our next trip over this land of desolation was to 
Toledo, a trip that can be made from Madrid in a day. 
You see the same gray olive trees scattered here and 
there, a barren waste to all appearance, a dull grayness 
over the sky and over the earth; away back of us the 
Sierra Guadarrama. Yes, we were on our way to 
Toledo — Toledo in Spain. How all the stories of her 
glory come up before us : her silks and fabrics, her mar- 
vellous Toledo blades, her Alcazar, her cathedral ! As 
we rode up the winding hill into her narrow gray streets 
we wondered why the Jews, when driven out of Jeru- 
salem by Nebuchadnezzar, came to Toledo. Of all 
the desolate countries over which we had travelled, 
Spain, outside its cities, takes the lead. So far it is 
one long stretch of desolation, a repetition of the Bad 
Lands of Wyoming — it is very marked around Toledo. 
Whatever induced Tubal Cain or any other pioneer to 
pick out this barren, lonesome locality is a wonder to 
me. I know the Bible says when Jonah wanted to flee 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUEOPE 

from the face of the Lord he paid his fare and started 
for Tarshish (now Cadiz). We know that he did not 
make port; whether he got a rebate we are not told. 
When we hear of the desolate places in Palestine I 
think it must have been because Spain around Toledo 
looked so much like home. We know Tubal Cain was 
the great iron master in his native land. Was this the 
secret and the foundation of the steel industries that 
have made Toledo famous? With steady tread we can 
imagine them again packing the narrow streets of their 
beloved city. We read that in those days the Jews of 
Jerusalem sent a deputation to the head men of Toledo 
asking : 

"Shall this man who says he is the son of God be 
given up to the Roman law and die? " 

Their answer was: "By no means commit this great 
crime, because we believe from the evidence that He is 
indeed the long-looked-for Redeemer." 

They were too late — on their arrival home the 
deed had been done, but there is the tale that their 
true allegiance is the reason the Jews of Toledo were 
spared the horrors of the Inquisition. We know 
that the King of the Visigoths, who had become a 
Christian, made Toledo the ecclesiastical capital of 
Spain. We are also told by historians that it was the 
Romans who were the makers of Spain. They taught 
civilization to the nations, they built bridges and roads 
and aqueducts which are traceable to-day. They built 

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towns. Pliny has made record that in the lifetime of 
our Lord there were eight hundred and twenty-nine 
cities in Spain. They introduced the Christian re- 
ligion. These were followed by the Goths in the fourth 
century. Of course they were refugees from the Huns, 
who crossed the Danube and found their way in time 
to Spain; they in time conquered the Romans. Their 
reign lasted three hundred years. There were thirty- 
six Gothic kings and they made Toledo their capital. 
These kings were elected by the will of the people. 
Roderick, the last King of the Goths, is known in ballad 
and fable. Then came the Berbers, descended of the 
vandals in Africa, the representatives of Mahomet and 
a new religion. This was the invasion of the Moors 
in 711 when the Gothic reign was going to pieces. 
Tarik "the one-eyed" landed in Spain with 7,000 men. 
Soon followed the historic Battle of Guadalette, which 
ended, after a week's fighting, in the defeat of the Goths. 
City after city threw open its gates to Tarik. Toledo 
was made the capital of their kingdom a century later, 
and was wrested from them by Alphonso VI of Castile 
and Leon in 1085. 

There are but few buildings in Toledo of an historic 
nature that do not bear the finger-marks of Goths, 
Romans, Moors, and Spaniards. You walk through 
the streets with the feeling that you might meet Tarik 
or Alphonso and the Cid, or Ferdinand and Isabella. 
The centuries seem but days; but you are confronted 

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with the evolution of the dynasties that have come and 
gone, and wonder if it was a part of the plan of crea- 
tion. 

The cathedral, the largest in Spain, impresses you 
only by its size. The Alcazar is merely a reminder of 
what has been; it is now a military school. In one of 
these narrow streets you pass a shrine in the wall of a 
convent covered by a wire grating and above it you 
read, if any maiden wishes a tall husband a long pin 
must be deposited in this receptacle; if a short one, a 
short pin; if a black-eyed one, a black pin; if a light- 
complexioned one, a white pin. By the accumulation, 
we concluded it to be a very clever device to keep the 
convent in pins. 

We had become more or less entangled between the 
Moslem and Christian civilizations, and — shall I own 
up to it?— there were moments when it seemed that 
history had recorded that the Moslems were more 
humane than the Christians. We came upon the 
church of San Juan de los Reyes. The outside walls 
were festooned with the votive chains of captive Chris- 
tians. We recalled that this church was built by Isa- 
bella, it is said, and given to her husband on his return 
from Portugal. The chief attraction of San Juan lies 
in the Gothic cloisters. It would seem, to look upon 
this scene, that Gothic decorative art had arrived at 
the climax of perfection; but what recollections it brings 
up : the crucifix that led the procession of the auto-de-f e 

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SPAIN 

brings back Philip II when the great show prepared 
for the public when he was to be married was the burn- 
ing of heretics in the market place of Toledo; and we 
look into the marble galleries where Ferdinand and Isa- 
bella sat to hear mass, and we wonder if she ever did 
sit there and see these prisoners bound to be led to the 
sacrifice; we wonder if really at heart she believed in the 
Inquisition — a woman so good at heart, to whom the 
world owes so much. Was it not the position fate had 
placed her in? 

In passing through these narrow, crooked streets, 
everywhere a blank wall to the street — the attractive 
patios are in the centre — we are possessed with the 
feeling that the passing of centuries has shrunken them. 
The city is situated on a granite hill, singularly beau- 
tiful for location. The Tagus surrounds it in horse- 
shoe shape. In leaving the city we wound round the 
hill and crossed the Puente del San Martin, said to be 
one of the wonderful bridges of the world. The story 
goes that as the bridge neared completion the architect 
discovered he had made a mistake in calculation and 
that when the centres were removed the bridge would 
fall. He made known his sorrows to his wife, who 
quickly saw the remedy : burn the bridge. It was done. 
On rebuilding, he profited by the mistake, and the 
bridge stands to-day a monument to a wife's devotion. 

In looking back upon the city we recall the towers 
and Moorish patios, the double arcade of airy arches, 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

carved balustrades. We all recall the bloody struggles 
between the Crescent and the Cross; we hear the echoes 
of the footsteps of the regal presence that passed in the 
centuries procession of the Iberians, the Moors, the 
Romans, the Goths. It is the same story of the passing 
of nations; we find it everywhere if time enough has 
passed, and again we ask, with old Toledo fading out of 
sight with the setting of the sun, is it all a part of the 
plan of creation? 

From Madrid to Seville we took our sleeper at 8:20 
p. m. In the gray of the morning looking out of the 
car window we caught the first glimpse of Cordova. 
How beautiful it looked through the early mists; the 
delicate branches of the trees that softened every nook 
and corner. We are still wondering what sort of trees 
they were; not olive or oranges; they were much too 
graceful for those, yet miles of olive orchards spread out 
over the plains, a beautiful relief to the eyes. The face 
of the country began to look as we had pictured it in 
our mind; the gray, rocky, forbidding landscape we 
were leaving behind us. It does not matter so much if 
the traveller is greatly disappointed at what he finds left 
of the once perfect city of the Iberians. The marvellous 
cathedral has never been surpassed; language does not 
convey the superb appointments of this mosque, it 
must be seen to be appreciated; but Cordova stands 
out as another lesson of the changes time has wrought 
over the fair face of Spain. 

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SPAIN 

On our arrival at Seville we were pleased to find a 
roomy, pleasant, modern depot, also that the officers' 
duty consisted only of opening our trunks and closing 
them again to satisfy the law. They knew no search 
was necessary, as American women as a rule do not 
smoke, and cigarettes would not be found, so we were 
not detained long. Seville had a pleasant welcome for 
us. It is situated on a flat, level plain — so is Chicago. 
The Guadalquivir, which has been sung in song and 
story, is not the glorious Hudson, but it runs along at 
our side as cheery as possible, with its low banks and 
not overmuch water, but it said us " Welcome to Seville," 
and that is as much as any river can do. 

We were taken by public conveyance to the Grand 
Hotel de Paris. Our entree was through narrow streets, 
low houses, all white, clean, and with an air of comfort 
about them. You look through the iron gateways into 
fascinating patios filled with shrubbery, flowers, and 
fountains, with air and sunshine — the patio an open 
hall, a reception-room, partly Roman, more Moorish; in 
hot weather cots are arranged there for the family to 
sleep; lounges, easy chairs, dining tables; in fact, the 
housekeeping has a resetting in these patios. 

After we had settled ourselves in our comfortable 
hotel, we did not find it with all the modern comforts of 
the Ritz at Madrid, but better by far than books and 
the misrepresentations of writers and travellers in Spain 
had taught us to expect. We breakfasted at eleven 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

and betook ourselves to the Alcazar. There we spent 
our time until the dinner hour. What can I say of the 
Aladdin's wonder? It goes without saying that the 
Alcazar is the greatest wonder and the most beautiful 
building in Seville. The cathedral has many counter- 
parts, grand as it is, and we have studied many, but the 
Alcazar stands out alone, speaking its lesson to the 
lover of history in a new language. Peter the Cruel 
and Henry II caused the present building to be erected 
by Moorish architects. Isabella erected the chapel on 
the first floor. It was built on the ruins of the Roman 
Pretorium. Charles V married Isabella of Portugal in 
the Hall of the Ambassadors; he made many additions 
and improvements. The extreme beauty of the Court 
of the Maidens, the Hall of the Ambassadors, the vistas 
through the vaulted doorways, the azulejos, the open- 
worked walls of sculptured stone, the tracery of slender 
ivory columns as they appeared, the pages of history 
that unfold step by step, will leave a lasting impression 
on the memory. As we walked the narrow, crooked 
streets we were reminded of the home of the "Barber 
of Seville." 

When we took our seat in the garden — built by Don 
Pedro, near the pool where Maria de Padella used to 
bathe — under the beautiful palms, surrounded by 
fountains and flowers, there came up before us names 
that have won the admiration of the world. We are 
told Caesar captured Seville forty-five years before 

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SPAIN 

Christ, in spite of Pompey at Cordova; we know it was 
the birthplace of Velasquez and Murillo; we know it 
was the scenes of Mozart's Don Juan, and Figaro of 
Bizet's Carmen. 

The discovery of America gave a marked impetus to 
Seville. Palm Sunday, May, 1493, Columbus was for- 
mally received here on his return after the discovery 
of America. We walk out of this place filled with the 
thought of other days. We do not forget with all the 
other horrid murders of Peter the Cruel that it was here 
that he murdered his royal guest, Alba, Said of Granada, 
for the sake of his jewels, one of which, a large spinel 
ruby, given by Peter to the Black Prince, now figures in 
the British regalia. 

The Cathedral 

The cathedral at Seville is probably the largest and 
richest in all of its appointments of any cathedral in 
Europe. It is another of the buildings that must be 
seen to be appreciated. It has the same extravagantly 
resplendent appointments of many others, and sur- 
passes most of them. You look upon it all and are 
dazed with the splendor, but are appalled at the beggars 
who are allowed to embarrass the visitors with their 
importuning, and sometimes the thought is forced upon 
you that if there had been less extravagance in these 
appointments and in most of the cathedrals in Spain, 
and some of these millions put in reserve to care for 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

these vagrants that prey upon the public with greater 
or less degree of annoyance, the spirit of Christianity 
would be presented perhaps in a more acceptable form. 

We would hesitate to put into words the embarras- 
sing situation in which some of our party were placed 
by reason of them, and it does look as though somewhere 
a remedy could be found. 

The paintings are numerous and well worth time and 
study, but the one that took our party back time and 
time again during our stay in Seville was Murillo's 
"Guardian Angel." In 1656 Murillo finished his cele- 
brated "St. Anthony of Padua" for the baptismal 
chapel in the cathedral at Seville. The expression 
on the saint's face, who on his knees extends his hands 
to receive the infant Saviour amidst a glory of super- 
natural light, is a smile of perfect happiness. The little 
messenger has come to bring some word of comfort 
and he lays his hand cunningly on St. Anthony's cheek. 
In 1874 the figure of St. Anthony was cut out, stolen, 
and sold to a Mr. Schaus, a picture dealer in New 
York, for $250. He turned the purchase over to the 
Spanish Consul, who returned it to the cathedral at Se- 
ville. 

An interesting feature to American visitors is the 
monument to Columbus in the south transept, which 
was erected in Havana, in 1892, in the cathedral and 
taken to Spain in 1899. It consists of a marble base 
on which are four allegorical figures in bronze, the king- 

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SPAIN 

doms of Castile, Aragon, Leon, and Navarre, support- 
ing the sarcophagus that contains the mortal remains 
of the great discoverer. From 1509 till 1510 the re- 
mains of Columbus reposed in the Convent Church of 
Cartuja. They were brought from Valladolid, where 
Christopher Columbus died May 21, 1506. In accord- 
ance with the last wish of Columbus his remains were 
removed to San Domingo in Haiti. After the French 
got possession of that part of the island the body was 
transported to the cathedral in Havana in 1796. From 
there it was brought to Seville in 1899. It is profoundly 
hoped that here it may rest. 

The treasury, the naves, and chapels must be studied 
in detail, but cannot be included in a general survey of 
the cathedral. 

The Giralda, a conspicuous landmark of Seville, is con- 
sidered the most beautiful building in Seville — if build- 
ing it can be called. It was originally the minaret, or 
prayer tower, of the Moorish mosque erected in 1184-96. 
From the outside one is impressed with the feeling of 
tower, nothing more. The fascinating Moorish touch 
is inside. It is capped by a small dome on which stands 
a bronze female representing Faith. The figure is 
Giraldello, or vane, which gives the tower its name, and 
which moves with ease at each turn of the wind. It is 
an adjunct of the cathedral and is under the special 
protection of Sts. Justa and Rufino, whom Murillo has 
immortalized by his painting of the " Saints with the 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

Giralda." There is the legend that Justa and Rufino 
were potters in Triana, a suburb of Seville across the 
river. Triana was noted for the production of beau- 
tiful pottery, especially for the wonderful azulejos. 
The legend runs thus : Sts. Justa and Rufino were patron- 
esses of Seville a. d. 304; these were two Christians 
dwelling in that city. They were the daughters of a 
potter and made a living by selling earthenware; and 
contenting themselves with the bare necessaries of 
life, they gave all the rest to the poor. Certain women 
who lived near them and who were worshippers of the 
goddess Venus came to their shop to buy vessels for 
their idolatrous sacrifice. The sisters answered that 
they had no vessels for such a purpose, and that their 
ware should be used for the service of God and not in 
the worship of stocks and stones. Upon this the pagan 
women broke all the earthenware in the shop. Justina 
and Rufino retaliated by falling upon the image of 
Venus, which they broke in pieces and flung it in the 
kennel. The populace immediately collected before 
their door, seized them and carried them before the 
prefect. On being accused of sacrilege, they boldly 
avowed themselves to be Christians, and, being con- 
demned to the torture, Justina expired on the rack and 
Rufino was strangled. Murillo has frequently painted 
them, sometimes as Spanish girls bearing the palms, 
as martyrs holding in their hands earthenware pots, 
and the Alcarrajas at their feet; but it is his picture 

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SPAIN 

of the "Saints with the Giralda" that you carry with 
you. 

The sun was shedding its golden light upon the pil- 
lars in marble, the panels of lacework, the arches in 
horseshoe windows, all, all the marvellous Moorish 
ornamentation, as we turned into the narrow, crooked 
street to make our way back to our hotel, feeling that a 
look at the "Giralda" alone would repay for a trip to 
Spain. 

Seville is rich in the work of the old masters. If one 
wants to revel in Andalusian art, in the atmosphere of 
Murillo, go to Seville. In one of our morning walks, 
in and out of the crooked streets, we came upon the 
Museum, which was once the old Convent Church. 
Here Murillo almost reigns supreme. Among the pic- 
tures is " St. Anthony of Padua with the Holy Child," 
who, with rapturous look, touches him with the divine 
finger. This is but one more evident fact that no mas- 
ter has ever portrayed the divine atmosphere in his 
children like Murillo, and no one can fully understand 
it until they have drunk it in in Andalusia. Among the 
many rare paintings we will note one more, that of the 
Virgin and Child, called the "Virgin of the Napkin," 
one of Murillo's best-known works. The legend sur- 
rounding this picture is as follows: Murillo was at 
work in the Capuchin convent at Seville when his cook, 
Brother Pepe, entered with the tray on which was his 
noonday meal. He began to expostulate with Murillo 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

on his wonderful gift. " God has been very good to you, 
Sefior Maestro, and raised you up to his throne to show 
you heavenly mysteries. You are a god, too, in your 
way. If from nothing He made the world, you by your 
genius give new life to it. If I," continued the monk, 
"could possess one of your Virgins, I should be the 
happiest man in Seville." "Gold could not purchase 
these," replied Murillo, "but to show you mine is not 
a mercenary nature, if you will bring me a canvas I 
will promise to paint you a saint upon it." "But I 
have not the price of a canvas," the monk cried out. 
"Here," answered Murillo, "give me this coarse napkin 
from your tray and I will keep my word." The balcony 
of Murillo's room overlooked the Plaza di Santa Cruz. 
On looking down Murillo saw a woman, with an infant 
on her arm, take her seat on one of the benches. " Great 
God!" exclaimed Murillo, gazing at the woman in 
ecstasy, "can it be really she, my first love? Is she 
alive?" Meanwhile the woman, busy with her child, 
pulling at the tresses of her raven hair, turned its 
dimpled face upward with a smile, but saw not 
Murillo. In the meantime Murillo had snatched the 
napkin and rapidly traced on it her image and the 
child's. 

A vision came to Murillo in the night of his love, the 
face upon the napkin, and all the sweet, sad days it 
recalled. Again Brother Pepe appeared to claim his 
picture. 

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SPAIN 

"Never!" cried Murillo, covering it with his body. 
"Never while I live." 

Afterward the voice of conscience smote: "She 
loved you, she belongs to another. You, too, have 
stood before the altar with an honest wife; to keep the 
portrait would be a sin — it might injure her, your 
beloved." 

Murillo slept in an iron chair before the picture. 
There he was found by Brother Pepe when he came in 
at the regular hour. 

"Awake, Maestro!" called Pepe, touching him on the 
shoulder, and as Murillo turned his eyes he fixed them 
on the Virgin. 

"Have you come for that, Brother Pepe?" he asked 
in a low voice. "If so, take it, carry it away; it is too 
precious." 

Strange words, thought Brother Pepe; he may be 
wandering in his mind; but he seized the picture and 
carried it away. 

This is the legend of the "Virgin of the Napkin" 
that we saw in the picture gallery of Seville. If there 
are any signs of the texture of the linen of the napkin 
they were not visible to us. The exquisite coloring, 
the perfection of form and feature, to all appearance 
might have been on porcelain. 

Another morning brought us to the Casa de Pilatus. 
It is thought that originally this was a Moorish palace, 
but it fell into the hands of Don Enrique Ribera and 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

was completed under his descendants. The Marquis 
de Tarifa had made a journey to Jerusalem, and from 
this arose the conclusion that it was in imitation of the 
house of Pilate, and hence the name: the House of 
Pilate. When the third Duke of Alcate, Don Fernando 
Enrique de Ribera, was established in this home, he 
built a library and added to the collection of antiquities 
which his father had brought from Naples. It was in 
his regime that the house was made the social centre 
of Seville. We read that Herrera and Cervantes were 
among the guests. The style of architecture is a com- 
bination of Moorish, Gothic, and Renaissance. You 
enter by a marble portal, then you are entranced as 
you enter the patio with a double arcade supported by 
the same airy slender marble pillars that are the joy of 
the Alcazar, the capital and pediments wrought in lace- 
work; broad cloisters covered with tiles (azulajos). 
We wish we could convey to the reader the restfulness 
of the softness and the depth of color in those intense 
shades decorated by the lustre pigments, and recall 
that centuries have passed since they were the invention 
and the product of the Arabs. By these tiles with which 
the mosques of Persia and Arabia were adorned we 
mark the progress of the Arabs along the shores of 
Africa, and in Spain the Moorish buildings at Seville, 
Toledo, Granada, and above all at the fortress palace 
of the Alhambra. The Spanish learned the art from 
the Moors, and carry it on to this day. So it came that 

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SPAIN 

the House of Pilate, to enter the domain of true art and 
enchantment, must be adorned with azulajos. There 
is also the Pretorium of Pilate, with the Apostles' Creed 
on the door. There is a reproduction of the column at 
which Christ was scourged (the gift of Pius V). At a 
window in another room you are brought to the place 
where Peter denied the Lord. Four statues mark the 
corners of fountains. These were brought from Italica, 
a town founded by Scipio Africanus, 205 b. c, as a 
refuge for his veterans; it was the birthplace of three 
Roman emperors: Trajan, Hadrian, and Theodosius. 
It was built at the foot of the mountain near to Cala, 
a tributary to Quadalquivir. In the Middle Ages 
the ruins served as a quarry for Seville. Of course, 
Pilate was a Roman, and you are ostensibly in Pilate's 
House. 

In the rear of Pilate's House we come upon a narrow 
street (calle) called Candilejo, where we saw a bust of 
Peter the Cruel (Don Pedro) in the wall of one of the 
buildings. Another interesting story we were told con- 
cerning Peter: he made it a rule to prowl around the 
city at night to see what he could find that was good, 
bad, or — indifferent. He was dressed in disguise and 
wore a mask. In one of these midnight adventures, at 
the point mentioned, he ran upon an outcast, who struck 
him. Peter at once defended himself with his sword. 
In the melee Peter killed his antagonist. When he 
realized what he had done, he knew by his own decree 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

he was doomed to die. While cleaning his sword he 
removed his mask; a thought came to him: no one had 
witnessed the quarrel; he was safe. The next morning 
his alcalde (mayor) was summoned. The King in- 
quired if any one had broken this law against street 
fighting. The mayor's answer was that he knew of no 
one who had broken the law. 

"You must remember," said the King, "if any fight- 
ing takes place within the city and the culprit escapes, 
I shall hold you responsible." 

The mayor grew disturbed; he knew the King would 
live up to his word. While the conversation was going 
on a Moorish page told the King that the body of a 
man had been found in the street. 

"You come before me and deny the facts," said the 
King; "here comes the news that a dead man was found 
in the plaza behind Pilate's House." 

The King informed the mayor that in three days, if 
the murderer was not found, he would be hung in his 
place. Everything was put in motion by the alcalde 
to find the guilty one; after two days' search and after 
taking leave of his family he sent for his confessor. An 
old woman was shown into his presence and boldly 
announced that she could name the man. She told 
her story: 

"That night I heard a great noise. It was very 
dark; I lit my candle and looked out of the window. I 
saw two men fighting. One," she said, "had his back 

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SPAIN 

to me, the other was the King. He was in common 
clothes and wore a mask, but when he had laid his 
enemy low, he took off his mask and stood wiping 
his sword. Had I not seen his face I would still have 
known it was the King by the knocking of his knees ; 
everybody in Seville knows him by the rattling of his 
knees." 

The old woman left with the alcalde's blessing. The 
next morning he presented himself at the Alcazar 
bright and early. The King's first inquiry was: "Have 
you found the man? " 

"Yes, and nothing is easier than for you to meet him 
face to face." 

"You have found no one!" cried the King. 

"But, my lord," cried the mayor, "if you know the 
real man why don't you command me to seek him? 
And now, will your honor permit me to leave in order 
to make preparations for the execution? As you 
will be present, all preparations must be made with 
care." 

The alcalde called skilled Moorish artists; they were 
told to construct a life-sized figure dressed in royal robes, 
a sword in one hand, a sceptre in the other. The next 
morning this figure was hanged in the plaza of San 
Francisco. Don Pedro was present, the court was 
in attendance. Tradition stops here. How the 
King explained the situation is not told, but when 
the dummy in king's dress and crown was swung into 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

the air, it is said the King called the alcalde to him and 
said: 

"Justice has been done; I am satisfied." 

The house is pointed out where the old woman made 
record of what she saw, and the street is called the Calle 
del Candilejo, and where the King fought is Cabeza 
del Reg. Don Pedro. 

Much of the part of Seville, where the old Roman 
aqueduct walls still stand, is in good repair, with the 
modern electric cars running beside them, and one of the 
graceful arches broadened so as to make room for the 
railway lines from Madrid to pass through; and not far 
away Moorish houses with imposing miradors (gal~ 
leries with extension views) bring the story of two thou- 
sand years before you in unspeakable language. 

G. came in one morning and announced that a special 
performance was going to be given to our party that 
night at the Dancing Academy by Sefior Otero. We 
were aware that the best dancers in Andalusia can be 
seen in training there, and we knew that some of them 
had made their bow to American audiences. There 
were some exhibitions of the Gaditanae dances, which 
we are told delighted Petronius and Horace and were 
danced before Tiberius at Capri — a movement of the 
body instead of the feet, which I suppose was made 
tolerable because Cervantes pronounced it "a bound- 
ing of the soul, a quicksilver of the limbs," and it 
was tolerated just as the turkey trot is in America. 

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SPAIN 

But the poetry of motion was shown in the modern 
dances. The "Spanish dance" when waltzing was 
first introduced, the Mazurka, and various other dances 
which were taught in America when I was a child, were 
still religiously danced as a part of Spanish dancing. 
With this dancing also came melody in place of the 
thrum-thrum of Oriental dancing, accompanied by a 
pat of the toe and turn of the heel. Our evening was 
entertaining; we were honored with a photo of Otero 
with his autograph, and many souvenirs to G. and the 
the rest of the party. We came out feeling quite sure 
"the turkey trot" and the "bunny hug" did not orig- 
inate with Seftor Otero. 

Like a dream our days passed in old Seville, and then 
came the bright morning when her pink and white 
houses, her cathedral, the "Giralda," the Alcazar, the 
quiet Guadalquivir which had been our companion for 
days, faded out of sight — we were on our way to old 
Granada, still in Andalusia; but I will confess the en- 
ticing glamor that clings around that word is most mis- 
leading, for the greater part it is a melancholy country : 
the extended arid plains, the treeless and almost ver- 
dureless hills and mountains are depressing. We are 
told there were forests which were swept away by the 
Moors, that the birds could not hover therein and eat 
the grain, and so we hear no singing of birds. 

Yet here we are in Andalusia, on our way to Granada, 
the dream of years. We are struck by the heavenly 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

blue sky, and the massive silver-colored cumulus clouds 
that hang mountain-like abreast of the blue sky, and 
then we see where Velasquez found the ground for the 
striking cloud effects in his pictures, of his white clouds 
ready to drop out of the deeply blue background. 

We reached Granada in the night, and we shall not 
soon forget the long drive from the depot to the town, 
over a road worse than the corduroys in the wilderness, 
but at last we turned into the Moorish streets of Gra- 
nada, and soon we were entering the imposing gate at 
the foot of the hill on which stands the far-famed 
Alhambra. We had rooms engaged at the Alhambra 
Palace. 

The Alhambra 

It was late at night, but we were agreeably surprised 
to find a modern, attractive hotel, another refutation 
of the general impression. From our windows in the 
morning we got our first view of the snowclad peaks of 
the Sierra Nevada Mountains that seem to encircle 
Granada. There is a deep valley through which the 
River Darro flows. The veda, or plain, spreads out at 
our feet, and the city of Granada, with all its history, 
still listens to the rippling waters as it did when the 
Moors were in their glory centuries before. It is the 
Alhambra of to-day we are to drink in. The many 
legends and bits of history lend a charm and shed a 
glory over it all. 

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SPAIN 

After our breakfast we sallied out to enter the Won- 
derland. The graceful elms that waved their welcome 
were first in the picture that greeted us. We learned 
that on this barren hilltop the Moors had exercised 
their right of vandalism and not a tree was left, but 
after the Duke of Wellington came into possession of 
Soto de Roma these barren hills appealed to him, and 
he was the instrument that beautified this hallowed 
spot. The history of the Alhambra is too well known 
for need of relation here, but we cannot divest our- 
selves of the peculiar charm that hangs over the place 
in memories of the past, when the Moors believed that 
the celestial paradise hung over this very spot, and 
here was developed the best that was in them, in ele- 
gance and splendor. It was then that they diligently 
cultivated the arts and sciences. An empire was 
formed that had no rival, all the graces and refinements 
and culture of Eastern Arabia at the height of its great- 
est civilization were planted here; and as we walk over 
and through these ruins we seem to be walking over 
the map of Spain. Their arts, philosophy, knowledge, 
have gone to sleep — will it ever wake up? Not in the 
same old lines. With the centuries, new sciences have 
arisen and there is not time nor place for the old. The 
telegraph, the telephone, the wonders of electricity, 
the aeroplane, that annihilate time and space, leave no 
place for the slow processes of real art or architecture; 
and now as we pass through the Gate of Justice into 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

the Wonderland of the Alhambra we ask, what awaits 
the old world in the centuries to come? 

This gate is called the Gate of Justice from the tri- 
bunal held on the upper porch during the Moorish 
reign. The great vestibule is formed by an immense 
Arabian arch of horseshoe form; on the keystone of this 
arch is engraven a gigantic hand; within the vestibule 
on the keystone of the arch is sculptured in like manner 
a key. A tradition is handed down from the oldest 
inhabitants that the hand and key were magical de- 
vices on which the fate of the Alhambra depended. 
This spell, the tradition goes on to say, would last until 
the hand on the outer arch should reach down and grasp 
the key, when all would tremble together, and all the 
treasures underneath buried by the Moors would be 
revealed. We passed through and up the walk to the 
marble platform, where the judge used to sit to issue 
his decrees. As we walked on, in the shaded road, we 
got glimpses of the vermilion towers the fame of which 
had helped to draw us across the waters. The cen- 
turies opened and we walked on into the past. 

It is a long step backward to the days of the Al- 
Ahmar dynasty, the first of the Masride dynasty in 
1232, who built his residence on this hill. He is known 
as Mohammed I; his son continued the work, and 
Mohammed III built the first mosque, and Mohammed 
V was instigator of the crowning glory, the Court of 
Myrtles, the Court of Lions. With Mohammed VII 

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SPAIN 

began the decline. The building up and the tearing 
down have kept up through the centuries. 

We came out upon an esplanade; in front is the mon- 
strosity commenced but never completed by Charles 
V. Never was a pile of marble, stone, and mortar more 
out of place; no wonder it was left unfinished. We 
passed on to the upper end of the court and entered 
the Tower of Comares by a small door which opened 
upon a narrow winding stairway; we reached the ter- 
raced roof. What a panorama spread out before us, 
of mountain and valley, crumbling ruins, Gothic domes, 
Moorish towers, imposing cathedrals! Yes, this is 
Spain. On one side you see the whole plan of the 
Alhambra, you can look into the gardens and courts. 
A battlement with strong towers is the boundary of the 
fortress. At the foot of the pile is the peaceful River 
Darro. 

Away over the city and into the plain the guide 
points to the place where stands the historic bridge 
where Columbus was overtaken and called back by the 
messenger of Queen Isabella after he had left her and 
in desperation was going to try another source to send 
him across the sea. A little to the right and almost in 
the centre of the Vega you see the city of Santa Fe, 
built by the sovereigns Ferdinand and Isabella during 
the siege of Granada. It was to this city that Columbus 
was called back by Isabella and the compact made that 
led to the discovery of America, and here upon this 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

tower were some of America's children looking upon 
the site of these scenes that took place over four hundred 
years ago. 

We took our way back and entered the patio of the 
Alhambra, almost dizzy with the changes the centuries 
have wrought. We found ourselves in a court paved 
with white marble, decorated at each end with light 
Moorish peristyles. In the centre is an immense aqua- 
rium stocked with goldfish and bordered by roses. 
We passed into the Court of Myrtles, a pool of water 
surrounded by hedges of myrtle, with all the touches of 
Moorish art, through a Moorish archway to the Hall 
of the Ambassadors, where all the powers that have 
held sway over this magic place have congregated. 
Nothing outdoes the richness of the adornment of the 
Hall of Ambassadors that we have seen in Andalusia: 
it is among the richest of the Alhambra. At last we 
were in the centre of this bewildering magnificence, in 
the Court of Lions. This was the centre of the winter 
palace of the kings : a large fountain basin supported by 
twelve lions — at least the guide called them lions — and 
they are equally good as some of the roaring beasts that 
adorn our Capital. They have stuck to their duty 
through the ages, carried the water pipes through their 
noses, and watched the generations come and go, and 
listened to all the appreciative encomiums lavished upon 
the snowy arches that make a vista of entrancing lace- 
work, and we admired their steadfastness through the 

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SPAIN 

years, and noted that desolation and ruin do not mark 
the ravages of time in the Court of Lions. The most 
entrancing and the most stately of the halls are ranged 
round this court. 

The Hall of the Abencerrages 

It is told that Boabdil brought upon himself the 
curse of the whole tribe by congregating the principal 
managers in this room and beheading them, thirty- 
eight in number. They were brought into the court 
one by one and massacred, through jealousy of his wife. 
The blood stains in the marble are still pointed out, and 
the soft murmur of the fountains still goes on but tells 
no tales. Washington Irving refutes this story; it was 
not Boabdil but his father, Muley Hassen, who com- 
mitted this horrible crime. It is known that it was 
Muley Hassen and not Boabdil who confined his wife 
in one of the towers — in fact, she was Boabdil's mother. 

We passed on into the Hall of Justice. Here were 
performed the pompous ceremonies of high mass in 
the presence of Ferdinand and Isabella and their 
triumphant court. The cross is still to be seen on the 
wall where the altar stood. The hall is now barren 
and desolate, bats fly in and out at their leisure. Not 
so many centuries ago, in this room, could be heard, 
"Allah II Allah! There is but one God and Moham- 
med is his prophet." We think of the Moslem monu- 
ments in Spain, the Alcazar of Seville, the Mosque of 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

Cordova, the Alhambra of Granada, all bearing the 
inscriptions that at one time told of power, and that 
power ran through the centuries; and yet to-day we find 
it was an exotic; when dug up and carried back to 
Africa it was absorbed by the Berbers of barbaric 
Africa, and their power is known no more. 

The Hall of the Sisters 

In an outer wall of the Alhambra is a Moorish tower 
called the Hall of the Sisters. When we found our way 
into the interior we were astonished at the beauty of 
architecture, the unparalleled harmony, its lofty arches, 
the arabesque finish. Nothing had we found in this 
marvel of wonders of which this is not the equal. Those 
who have read the legend of the three beautiful prin- 
cesses, Zayda, Zorayda, and Zorahayda, by Washington 
Irving in his "Alhambra," will recall this tower as their 
home, and will seek the window by which they were low- 
ered to the ground to meet their Spanish lovers. 

Washington Irving's Rooms 

We, of course, were much interested to locate the 
rooms where Washington Irving lived while studying 
the Alhambra. We entered the Patois de Daraxa: a 
charming court shaded by orange trees, a fountain, of 
course, and many plants. The rooms surround the 
court and contain the archives of the Alhambra. In 
one of these rooms we saw where Irving wrote "Tales 

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SPAIN 

of the Alhambra." "Cook" says the name Daraxa, 
meaning vestibule, has been unaccountably meta- 
morphosed into Lindaraja; that Washington Irving was 
led to speculate about an imaginary Moorish beauty, 
Linderaxa. 

And thus we made our first round in the Alhambra; 
the ravages of time and mortals have brought a tinge 
of disappointment, but the remaining glory grew upon 
us as we traversed acre after acre of this fascinating 
ruin. 

We must call attention to a tower of Comares, La 
Cautiva, for associated with it is another of the enter- 
taining legends that are connected with the Alhambra. 
Muley Hassen, so the story goes, in his old age married 
a beautiful Christian captive of noble descent, Isabel de 
Solis, known in Moorish annals as Fatima. She be- 
came the mother of two children and had ambitions 
that they should succeed to the crown, and set herself 
to work to prejudice Abu'l Hassen against the children 
of his former wives. This prejudice led him to slay 
some of them. It is quite evident that a high morality 
was not the ruling passion with Abu'l Hassen. Ayxa 
la Horra, the exemplary mother of Boabdil, who had 
once been his best-beloved wife, was also placed under 
the ban of suspicion, and so she was confined in the 
Tower of Comares, and Boabdil would probably have 
been a victim to his fury, but the pangs of a mother's 
tender heart found a way of rescue. In the night she 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

lowered him and herself in a basket by the means of 
scarfs and the help of attendants, and they escaped to 
Guadix. 

At the upper end of the street that leads from the 
entrance gate we come to the Washington Irving Hotel. 
In that vicinity, partly hidden by the Hotel Roma, is 
the site of the Gate of the Seven Floors, the gate by 
which Boabdil is said to have left the Alhambra, and 
at his request was walled up and never again opened, 
through the sympathy of Isabella. 

History records the unfrequented route taken by the 
broken-hearted monarch to avoid the people : he crossed 
the Vega, and followed the course of the Xenil, coming 
to a small Moorish mosque, now converted into a 
chapel of San Sebastian. A tablet on the wall tells 
the story that on this spot Boabdil surrendered the 
keys of Granada to the Castilian sovereigns. A little 
farther on there was a small village where Boabdil's 
mother and family awaited him. They took up their 
line of weary march to a dreary height in the Alpuxarra 
Mountains, called the "Hill of Tears." It is said from 
the heights of one of these mountains upon a high rock 
Boabdil took his farewell look of Granada — still called 
the last sigh of the Moor. Tradition says that here, 
too, is the spot where his mother, Ayxa, who had so 
often been his prop and stay, said to him, "You do well 
to weep as a woman over what you could not defend 
as a man." 

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SPAIN 

The true human heart will always have pity for poor 
Boabdil. 

The Generalife 

The Generalife is the celebrated summer residence 
of the Moorish kings, delightfully situated on the side of 
a steep mountain turned toward the north opposite 
the Alhambra. The house proper is in a dilapidated 
state, but the landscape gardening to this day shows to 
what perfection the architect of the Alhambra carried 
his art. The house is depressing for the story it tells 
of time and change — the contrast of then and now. 
There is one redeeming feature of interest: the pic- 
tures that cover the walls of Spanish sovereigns since 
Ferdinand and Isabella. There are also pictures of 
the fourteen Marquises of Granada who held the office 
of Superintendent of the Generalife. A genealogical 
tree hangs at the end of the hall showing eighteen 
tributary kings who reigned in Granada. There are 
portraits of Ferdinand and Isabella, of Charles V, 
Philip II, Don Juan of Austria, Gonzalo, and, perhaps 
the most interesting of all, is one of "Boabdil of Chico." 

And here Fatima (Isabel de Solis), the captive wife 
of Abu'l Hassen, lived; Fatima (Light of Dawn) she 
was named. Here she wandered in these gardens of 
fountains, fruit, and flowers, until she was caught in 
interviews with a handsome Abencerrage guardsman. 
All these accusations Fatima denied, which was said to 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

have led up to the massacre of the Abencerrage by 
Abu'l Hassen at the Court of Lions. 

The Cathedral 

Our walk one morning took us down the hill under the 
shadows of the beautiful elms, through the gate, into 
the streets of old Granada. We wound our way, with 
minds full of the days of her glory — but the contrast, 
it is hopeless to undertake the portrayal. Of course, 
we brought up at the cathedral. It was like entering 
so many others, and yet individual, filled with rich 
sculptures and paintings, but the point of greatest 
interest to us was the Capilla Real, which communicates 
with the cathedral. It will recall to mind the brave 
deed of Herman del Pulgar, who entered Granada by 
the conduit of the Darro on the night of December 18, 
1490, and with his dagger pinned a scroll on the door 
of the mosque bearing the words "Ave Maria." The 
mosque stood on the site of Santa Maria Church. Ad- 
joining is the Capilla Real built as a burial chapel for 
the Catholic kings. It was afterward enlarged by 
Charles V who found it too small for so great glory. 
You pass through wrought-iron gates, where are two 
alabaster tombs, surrounded by all the heraldic em- 
blems of the age. Here are four royal monuments 
lying side by side. To the right is Ferdinand and 
Isabella. There she lies in her majesty, still leaving 
her impress on the world. To the left lies Philip of 

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SPAIN 

Austria and Joanna (Mad Joanna). Down a few steps 
in the vault lie the leaden coffins. Philip's coffin is the 
one his mad Queen used to carry about with her. The 
sacristy contains among numerous articles the standard 
which floated before the sovereigns in battle, Ferdi- 
nand's sword, the sceptre and crown of Isabella; and a 
golden casket is shown you containing her jewels, 
placed by herself and given into the hands of Columbus 
to furnish funds for his first voyage, and returned by him 
filled with gold. The visit to Granada would not have 
been complete without having seen the resting-place of 
our great benefactor. On one of our drives through the 
city en route to Cartu ja we could hardly believe that this 
was once the seat of regal power, the centre of the arts, 
science, and literature. The public library in the 
thirteenth century was a marvel of the age. It is said 
that any of the precious manuscripts it contained are now 
in the Escorial. Where now are the literati, teachers of 
the law, historians, philosophers, are the questions we 
ponder over as we pass over her uninteresting streets. 

The Cartuja is pleasantly situated on a high plateau, 
overlooking the tender green of the Vega, the snow- 
topped sierras; it is a secularized Carthusian convent 
built about the middle of the sixteenth century. There 
were many tokens of religious spite said to be inculcated 
through the repudiation of Catherine of Aragon and 
the advancement of Anne Boleyn, but the ornamenta- 
tion of the Cartuja surpasses in some degree anything 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUKOPE 

we saw in Spain because of the painstaking care mani- 
fested over the building. The doors, dadoes, and walls 
are inlaid with ivory, mother-of-pearl, jasper, tortoise 
shell, silver, without a sign of deterioration through the 
years, every part as brilliant as though the artist hand 
had left it but yesterday ; evidently one place where van- 
dalism had had no sway. 

Then came the day when we must say good-bye to 
Granada and to fascinating old Alhambra; once more 
our party wandered over the most fascinating parts 
of this sylvan place. We have put brain pictures 
of the Alhambra into a sun bath that they may not 
fade. Surely it is a Moslem pile in a Christian land, and 
yet you feel that what is left is a monument to a brave, 
intelligent, artistic people, who, conquered, had their day 
of ruling and passed away. 

At 7:30 a. m. we left the Alhambra Palace, another of 
the pleasant and satisfying hotels in Spain, for Ronda. 
The route in part was the same as we went over en route 
to Granada. We entered the valley of the Guadalette, 
and ascended between the limestone hills. It is a 
featureless and uninteresting waste much of the way. 
We passed the interesting town of Teba, and the estate 
of Eugenie, Empress of France (Countess of Teba), and 
on to Ronda, situated most picturesquely among the 
mountains. Our hotel, the Reina Victoria, was most 
comfortable, comparatively new, a little outside the 
town, with pleasant gardens and view unsurpassed. 

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SPAIN 

It would appear to newcomers that Ronda hung in the 
air. A short walk from the hotel brought us to the 
historic railing. No pictures give the correct idea of 
Ronda; it is six hundred feet at least above the river 
which divides the town by a rocky gorge. Two won- 
derful bridges span this gorge, one Moorish, one Roman. 
Some of the party had ventured down the rocky path 
to the mills on the river and looked almost like ants on 
the landscape. The wildness, the beauty, the awful- 
ness of it all entrance one. While the climbers were 
in the gulch I tipped a small brother and sister to walk 
with me to the Arab bridge. We all crossed over and 
went to the palace of the Moorish King. We paid 
50 cents and were shown the vacant rooms, and out of 
the back balcony we saw the steps cut in the rocks by 
Christian captives, almost sheer down to the River Tajo. 
There was a stone wall which tradition says Hercules 
helped to build, and there is the house where Miranda 
lived, and more things than we can mention, interesting 
beyond measure. We are still witnessing the rise and 
fall of empires. 

The old city of Ronda was originally an Iberian and 
afterward a Roman town. We recall the attack of 
Ferdinand on Ronda through the advice and assistance 
of the Marquis of Cadiz; we remember the stubborn 
fight made by Hamet el Zigre to save his city, and the 
rejoicing of the Christian captives as they listened to 
the cannonading, and, after the surrender, the first 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

thought of the Marquis of Cadiz was to liberate his 
unfortunate companions in arms from the dungeons 
where they had been imprisoned. Many of them were 
nearly naked, with iron chains at their ankles, their 
beards reaching to their waists. These captives were 
provided with mules and sent to Queen Isabella, who 
was at Cordova. History tells us that the humane 
heart of Isabella melted at the sight of the piteous 
cavalcade; she supplied them with food and clothing 
and money to pay their expenses home. The chains 
that were attached to these prisoners were hung as 
pious trophies against the outer walls of the Church of 
St. Juan de los Reyes, Toledo, to which we have alluded 
in our chapter on Toledo. 

We spent the days, and now it had come to hours, 
mounting the rocks, crossing the interesting bridges, 
sliding down the precipices, listening to the music of 
the Guadalevin as the wild waters rushed between the 
rocks and on up into the old town; down to the lower 
Tajo bridges, studying the old architecture — the world's 
wonder, the windows in the rocks. But above all we 
enjoyed the most inspiring of views we had found in 
Spain — and all such a complete contrast to what had 
gone before, that we reluctantly say good-bye. 

Algeciras, Tangier, and Gibraltar 

Our train carried us through a serpentine bend and 
silently sank into the valley of the Guadalevin, which 

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SPAIN 

now took the name of the Guadiaro. We passed 
through various and sundry tunnels, by the chalk cliffs, 
and then into fertile plains. Olive and almond trees 
adorned the spaces, but the most interesting were the 
groves of cork trees, and the wagons laden with bark, 
which leaves the trees, when stripped, barren in spots. 
This can be repeated at stated times, an interesting 
feature because new. At last we passed into the town 
of Algeciras. On the opposite side of the Bay is 
Gibraltar. 

The Hotel Reina Cristina is the last of the new hotels 
in Spain that make travel there in this day a pleasure. 
This is one of the most attractive of the hotels in Spain. 
Of course, it has its Spanish court, with fountain and 
flowers, and unique in every appointment. The flower- 
bordered paths in the garden would lure you on for 
hours, a beautiful spot for the crowning luxury of a tour 
through Europe on the southernmost point of the great 
peninsula that has entranced us through the weeks. 

The most interesting point in the old town is the 
building in which was held the Morocco International 
Conference, January 17 to April 7, 1906 — the Casa 
Consistorial, where the world's representatives con- 
gregated to adjust the Moroccan matter. They met 
in a large room in the second story. The traveller is 
also shown where the great banquet was held. In this 
room are photographs of all the representatives who 
took part, and we have one of them all seated at a 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

banquet when the work had been accomplished. The 
representatives from the United States are easily identi- 
fied. 

Aside from the restfulness of spending your leisure 
time in the charming surroundings of the Reina Cris- 
tina, you are in easy communication with Gibraltar and 
Tangier. 

November 12th in the early morning we took row- 
boats at the pier and met the steamer from Gibraltar, 
en route to Tangier. The world was full of sunshine, 
the sea smooth as glass; we were soon passing the Pillar 
of Hercules, and to our right was Tarifa, the southern- 
most point in Spain and of Europe. Tarifa was named 
from Tarif, a Saracen chief. 

During the Moorish invasion of Spain all vessels 
passing through the Straits of Gibraltar were here com- 
pelled to pay duties, from whence came our word tariff. 

As our ship turned toward the African shore, we 
looked beyond the Straits out into the path of the old 
Atlantic, over the blue waters where we were booked 
to sail homeward the next week. When we landed at 
Tangier everything presented a new aspect, from man 
and beast down to the small donkeys. 

Our hotel, the Cecil, was situated just outside the 
city gates, near the beach. Again we found ourselves 
comfortably fixed in a modern hotel; European, with 
every comfort. After we had taken lunch, the whole 
party mounted donkeys, with a guide who spoke good 

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English and intelligent enough to know what travellers 
would care most to see. Hadj Mahommed Mohre was 
his name — Mahommed for short. Each donkey was 
provided with a driver at the bit. We entered the 
oriental city of Tangier, the interest increasing with 
every turn in the streets, which were so narrow your 
donkey could not diverge or you would brush the walls 
of the houses. They were not good wide alleys. For 
two hours we rode through the Moorish, the Jewish, and 
the Berber quarters. We passed several schoolrooms 
en route, and could hear the children reciting the Koran, 
the only book they study. The donkeys, the asses, 
the mules filled the streets. Sunday is market day; all 
were doubly loaded with the products of the country for 
the next day. We rode over rocks and stones and 
crooked streets, our sure-footed little donkeys carefully 
picking their way. It was the one day in the week 
when the Moslem women were allowed out. The 
married women would pull their mantles with an extra 
jerk when they saw us coming, holding their hands 
tightly over their faces lest we get a peep. The Jewish 
women, many of them, were in fashionable attire, and 
let me say that in all Europe I did not see such beautiful 
children, in form and feature, and their lovely costumes 
were in keeping with their sweet, joyous faces. We 
went through labyrinths of streets, turning a corner 
at almost every length of the donkey. The white 
houses, or, rather, pale blue, in the Moorish quarter 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

were clean and picturesque; the old gates of the city 
fascinating; the minaret overtopping all a new feature 
in architecture, and we reached the mosque just in time 
to hear the call of the Muezzin to prayer. 

The Moors look so solemn and stately in their white 
or colored burnous and yellow slippers, with brilliant 
turbans or fez. Our guide, when mounted, looked a 
king, with his red cap, black broadcloth coat lined with 
white, always worn partly off his shoulder, and yellow 
waistcoat; these, with his red saddle reaching up his 
back, gave him a most picturesque appearance. We 
rode on out of the city into the country; saw the villa 
from which MacLean was captured by the brigands, 
and on to the country home of Perdicaris, where we 
hoped to pay our respects. He and his wife when in 
Washington were the guests at lunch of the Pro-Re- 
Nata Club, when he gave a most interesting account of 
his capture. We found that he and his wife were 
spending their days in a quiet way on one of the lakes of 
Switzerland. On and on we scrambled down into the 
Bubana Valley. If there is any other road in the world 
as bad we have missed it. But down the hills, crossing 
the Jew River, with hearts quaking, but a steady hand 
at the bit and no thought of dismounting, as some of our 
party did, we compassed the big boulders and deep 
gullies, and up a small rise and a turn to the right we 
were on "Mount Washington," so named by our 
American Minister, or Consul, Matthews, who built a 

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SPAIN 

villa thereon. Since then it has become the summer 
dwelling-place of the well-to-do. A little farther, and 
we were in full view of the Atlantic. Mahommed 
ordered tea from a Moorish tea house, a little shack in 
front of us, a drygoods box for our table. An attend- 
ant in gay Moorish costume came forward with a 
tumbler of tea for each, in which was a sprig of mint. 
This is their native beverage and is really very palat- 
able. 

On our return we passed many fine buildings, the 
Portuguese and Spanish legations, and reached our 
hotel before the setting of the sun. 

At night, with Mahommed and G. and the driver 
who had done such heroic service through the day, we 
started for the city inside the gates, our driver in ad- 
vance with a highly decorated lantern at least two feet 
high, with a candle, to illuminate our way; the city is 
poorly lighted. In single file, Indian like, we made our 
way through the old city gate and up through the wind- 
ing streets until we reached a door where the sound of 
bones, tambourines, and voices told of an entertain- 
ment. The performers were all sitting on the floor of 
the platform. Nobody but foreigners use chairs in 
Tangier. We listened for some time to the wild, 
barbaric music. One girl went through the muscle 
dance. Many of the countrymen who had come in 
for the Sunday's market were there in their white dress, 
their heads tied with gun-protectors, a piece of black 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

cloth to attest to their bravery. The music seemed 
to give them great delight. They had all left their 
sandals at the door at the top of the stairs before they 
entered the room — barefooted and barelegged. It was a 
quaint bit of Moorish life, probably the bright spot in 
their work day. Before we left we were served with 
coffee, the only real Mocha coffee we had tasted in 
Europe. It is well known that the Moors think that 
they alone know the secret of making good coffee. 

The caravans that passed our hotel were an interest- 
ing study, either on their way into the city or to the 
wharves. They told the story of the many industries 
of this hard-working people. 

On Sunday morning our guide, drivers, and donkeys 
were at the door at ten sharp. We were soon mounted 
and on our way to market, the day of all days in Tan- 
gier. Again we wound our way through the crooked, 
narrow streets until we came to the Market Space 
" Soco." It was like looking upon a sea of floating 
cloud: white, yellow, red, not a foot of ground unoc- 
cupied, with everything marketable — vegetables, fruits, 
flowers, meats, bread — the last named by law is sold 
only by the divorced women, partly veiled — the for- 
tune teller, the snake charmer — the story tellers all had 
the little audiences in the moving panorama that 
covered acres. We did not know how far these people 
had come with their wares; their great bundles of wood 
fagots were carried by women, loads that would stag- 

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SPAIN 

ger a donkey. This is their day out and the men make 
them useful. Distance here is not known by miles or 
leagues, only by the time it takes to walk it. Not a 
carriage or wagon could be used in Tangier. Donkeys 
or humans are the burden carriers. We occasionally 
passed a Moslem on the street, whose erect, proud car- 
riage, whose faultlessly clean burnous, whose intel- 
lectual face, carried you back to the patriarchs in the 
Bible. 

This city on a hill that commands the Atlantic 
and could command Gibraltar, since the days the 
Portuguese controlled it all, has seemingly stood still. 
Through the centuries it gives no more, no less, to its 
citizens of the newer civilization of the comforts of 
living — as civilized nations look upon life to-day — 
than when the Berbers entered Spain. We followed 
our guide up the hill to the Court of Justice. We saw 
the new governor, son of the Sultan, and the judge, in 
an open booth under the roof of a white court, receiving 
the salaams of his subjects who were under trial. The 
ladies of our party were conducted to the harem of the 
governor. The Mogul was sitting in the marble porch 
of his house on a mat, his legs crossed under him, arms 
folded, surrounded by a half-dozen Moslems who, we 
were told, were his tenants. A liberal hand-out of 
silver by our guide soon brought forward a dark-skinned 
lass who opened the way and took us through — room 
after room, up two or three flights of steps, the walls of 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

every room lined with most artistic azulejos; mosaic 
floors, with handsome rugs, with broad flat settees, 
with mattresses covered with white linen and plentiful 
pillows, small tables with beautiful silver and china 
appointments for afternoon tea. Here the wives have 
their afternoon siestas. In the harem proper were the 
four wives, one a fine-looking woman with a beautiful 
little girl. The place was clean, attractive, and beau- 
tifully furnished for a Moorish home. According to 
Moorish law, they probably saw the outside world once 
a week. Mahommed, the guide, said: "We allow our 
women to go out once a week." I asked him what 
the men would do if some day the women asserted 
themselves and told the men they must be shut up and 
not be allowed to see the world but once a week? A 
shrug of the shoulders was the answer. 

One tall palm is seen from the upper heights of the 
city: this is where the Dervishes assemble when they 
come to the city. The lone palm is the talisman that 
beckons them to the place of assembly. But the streets 
— what do they bring forth? The water carrier with his 
goat skin, or the ass with two jugs hanging from each 
side, who are continually pushing your donkey to one 
side; veiled women with their backs to the street selling 
their wares; a burst of barbaric music, and on through 
the gates comes a religious procession of tattooed and 
ragged humanity carrying flags and lanterns on their 
way to prayer. 

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SPAIN 

We passed little niches in the walls, perhaps six feet 
square, and were told they were those of the marriage 
brokers : the broker sitting on a mat, no table, no chairs 
or papers, arms folded ready to give advice. The 
shoemaker, the crockery vender, the drapery dispenser, 
all sorts and conditions of tradespeople, are found in 
these narrow quarters; all have their slaves to run 
behind the donkey and cry "Balaak!" ("Get out of 
the way!") Altogether it is a land of mosques and 
shrines, of gardens, of mines of coal and minerals not 
worked, a land of ruins, and going daily to decay. The 
Muezzins' midnight cry rises and floats out on the air: 
"Praise be God, who made the world! Prayer is 
better than sleep ! Come ye to pray ! " 

We had made friends in Tangier; when we were 
ready to take our departure, Mahommed and his attend- 
ants were drawn up in line to courteously give us a 
joyful parting, and accompanied us down to the wharf 
— not for the last round of small silver, for that G. had 
liberally attended to, but to give the American visitors 
the parting compliments of Tangier. 

Gibraltar 

Our last days before sailing for our own loved America 
were spent in Gibraltar. Here A. and I parted with 
G., J., and Miss. C, they to make the tour around the 
world, we to return to our America. It is not well to 
dwell on the regrets at parting, after months of charm- 

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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

ing days and weeks enjoying the delights of travel, and 
yet nothing appeals to the heart after long separation 
like home. 

But the great Lion's Rock across the bay from Alge- 
ciras beckoned us there, whence we took the Cunard 
liner for home. Instead of the one day and night we 
expected to stay in Gibraltar we were kept there three 
days awaiting the arrival of our steamer. How wist- 
fully we watched for the flag that would float from 
Gibraltar's rocky heights when the ship was sighted. 
In the meant me we spent the days taking in all there 
was of interest in the place. We saw a description in 
one of the daily papers of some points of interest, among 
them of some Moorish baths quite in keeping with 
those of the Alhambra; instructions were to call for 
the key at the governor's house, which we proceeded 
to do, and were politely told by the guard that if we 
would call the next day at a given hour we cou d have 
it. At the time appointed we were there. Two officers 
in uniform came with the key, and if not intruding 
would like to go along as they had never had the plea- 
sure of seeing the Moorish baths. It was but a short 
distance from our hotel, but when we entered and 
passed from room to room, we only saw where they had 
been — every vestige of marble flooring, marble baths, 
and all the appointments had been removed; no one 
the wiser, nobody knew when, by whom, or where re- 
moved to. I most courteously begged the pardon of 

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SPAIN 

the English officers for disappointing them in what 
promised to be a sight of much interest. They took 
it as you would expect an Englishman would, and saw 
no irony in the joke. 

The hotels of Gibraltar cannot touch one in which we 
sojourned in Spain for comfort, luxury, cleanliness, 
food, or in any way. It seems almost time for England 
to wake up! 

This stronghold has been held by England two hun- 
dred years. Not until I stood on Gibraltar did I ap- 
preciate that the old rock does not command the en- 
trance to the Bay of Gibraltar. There is Tarifa, the 
southernmost point of Europe, and the African Pillar 
of Hercules, which would or could command the en- 
trance: and in these days of unrest we wonder if the 
time will come when these outer projections of Spain 
and Morocco will ever be fortified by other nations and 
England shut in with her stronghold? These are 
merely thoughts by the way. 

Gibraltar is not an English city to all appearance. 
The population, apart from the military assignment, 
is made up of Moors and a heterogeneous set of immi- 
grants of all nationalities from the shores of Spain. We 
saw the most there was to see there, and were quite 
happy when the flag floated from the signal tower 
announcing our ship. At twelve o'clock we were on 
board the Saxonia, pleasantly located. We take our 
seats upon the deck to watch the fading vision and to 

[231] 



AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 

realize that we have said good-bye to the rocks and hills 
and lonely plains of old Spain, where we have wandered 
and dreamed and drank in the old and new life of Spain. 
We realize that we have left her ancient halls and castles 
to their bleakness and their barrenness. The Moorish 
suggestions of her fascinating ivory colonnades, lace- 
bedecked Alcazar, her inimitable Giralda, from whose 
height we fancy we can hear the Moslems cry to prayer; 
her grand old cathedrals with their fascinating naves, 
their brilliantly colored windows through which the sun 
sheds effulgent glory; her paintings of the old masters, 
her crowning glory, Murillo's "Guardian Angel"; the 
tomb of Columbus; the treasury filled with the glow 
and glitter of precious jewels, the hand-downs of queens 
and potentates; the old Alhambra with its lessons of 
power and weakness; beautiful Madrid with its mar- 
vellous "Musio de Prado," are now but memories; each 
revolution of the engine is putting them farther and 
farther behind us — all memories, sweet and lasting, for 
they have been photographed on the brain. We shall 
remember what we have drunk in of "the days of the 
Phoenicians," of the Visigoths, of the Huns, of the 
Moors, and the mixture of nations we call Spaniards; 
of Spain's good days and bad days, of her rough, for- 
bidding landscapes, of her satisfying plains of green 
fields and olive orchards. 

We sit here while our ship cuts through the deep 
waters, and gradually let go our hold and find ourselves 

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SPAIN 

reaching out to another land, where freedom, light, and 
truth are supreme. Our journey is over. I see the 
old Flag of our Union floating upon its native soil. The 
tears spring for joy — it is our Flag, our country, our 
home. 



THE END 



[233] 




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